P.  C.  K€UY 
ROSUNDALt.  MASS. 


A CUSHLA  GAL  MO  CHREE 

(Bright  Vein  of  My  Heart) 

An  Irish  Girl  Wearing  the  National  Cloak  and  Hood 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
JOHN  I).  MORRIS  & COMPANY 


EDITORIAL  BOARD 
AND  ADVISORY  COMMITTEE 


Maurice  Francis  Egan,  LL.D., 
of  the  Catholic  University, 
Washington 
Lady  Gregory 
Standish  O’Grady 
D.  J.  O’Donoghue 
Prof.  F.  N.  Robinson,  of  Har- 
vard University 
W.  P.  Ryan 


Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D. 

James  Jeffrey  Roche,  LL.D., 
Editor  The  Pilot 
G.  W.  Russell  (“A.  E.”) 
Stephen  Gwynn 
Prof.  W.  P.  Trent,  of  Columbia 
University 

Prof.  H.  S.  Pancoast 
John  E.  Redmond,  M.P. 


Charles  Welsh,  Managing  Editor 
Author  of  ‘The  Life  of  John  Newbery  ’ (Goldsmith’s  friend  and  publisher). 


SPECIAL  ARTICLES  and  THEIR  WRITERS 

Irish  Literature Justin  McCarthy 

Modern  Irish  Poetry  ....  William  Butler  Yeats 
Early  Irish  Literature  . . . Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D. 

Ireland’s  Influence  on  Euro- 
pean Literature Dr.  George  Sigerson 

Irish  Novels Maurice  Francis  Egan,  LL.D. 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  . . Charles  Welsh 

The  Irish  School  of  Oratory  , J.  F.  Taylor,  K.C. 

The  Sunniness  of  Irish  Life  . . Michael  MacDonagh 

Irish  Wit  and  Humor  . . . . D.  J,  O’Donoghue 

The  Irish  Literary  Theater  . . Stephen  Gwynn 

A Glance  at  Ireland’s  History  . Charles  Welsh 

Street  Songs  and  Ballads  and  Anonymous  Verse 


BIOGRAPHIES  and  LITERARY  APPRECIATIONS 


by 

George  W.  Russell  (“  A.  E.”) 
W P.  Ryan 
Charles  Welsh 
Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D. 

T.  W.  Rolleston 

G.  BaRxNett  Smith 

H.  C.  Bunner 
G.  A.  Greene 


W.  B.  Yeats 
S.  J.  Richardson 
Standish  O’Grady 
D.  J.  O’Donogiiue 
Austin  Dobson 
Dr.  G.  Sigerson 
N.  P.  Willis 
Lionel  Johnson 


i-j  O ? « 


I — Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


,i  - 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/irishauthorsthei03mcca 


MODERN  IRISH  POETRY. 


The  Irish  Celt  is  sociable,  as  may  be  known  from  his 
proverb,  It  is  better  to  be  quarreling  than  to  be  lonely,^’ 
and  the  Irish  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century  have  made 
songs  abundantly  when  friends  and  rebels  have  been  at 
hand  to  applaud.  The  Irish  poets  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury found  both  at  a Limerick  hostelry,  above  whose  door 
was  written  a rhyming  welcome  in  Gaelic  to  all  passing 
poets,  whether  their  pockets  were  full  or  empty.  Its 
owner,  himself  a famous  poet,  entertained  his  fellows  as 
long  as  his  money  lasted,  and  then  took  to  minding  the 
hens  and  chickens  of  an  old  peasant  woman  for  a living, 
and  ended  his  days  in  rags,  but  not,  one  imagines,  with- 
out content.  Among  his  friends  and  guests  had  been 
Red  O^Sullivan,  Gaelic  O’Sullivan,  blind  O'Heffernan,  and 
many  another,  and  their  songs  had  made  the  people, 
crushed  by  the  disasters  of  the  Boyne  and  Aughrim,  re- 
member their  ancient  greatness. 

The  bardic  order,  with  its  perfect  artifice  and  imperfect 
art,  had  gone  down  in  the  wars  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  poetry  had  found  shelter  amid  the  turf  smoke  of  the 
cabins.  The  powers  that  history  commemorates  are  but 
the  coarse  effects  of  influences  delicate  and  vague  as  the 
beginning  of  twilight,  and  these  influences  were  to  be 
woven  like  a web  about  the  hearts  of  men  by  farm  laborers, 
peddlers,  potato  diggers,  hedge  schoolmasters,  and  grind- 
ers at  the  quern,  poor  wastrels  who  put  the  troubles  of  their 
native  land,  or  their  own  happy  or  unhappy  loves,  into 
songs  of  an  extreme  beauty.  But  in  the  midst  of  this 
beauty  was  a flitting  incoherence,  a fitful  dying  out  of  the 
sense,  as  though  the  passion  had  become  too  great  for 
words,  as  must  needs  be  when  life  is  the  master  and  not 
the  slave  of  the  singer. 

English-speaking  Ireland  had  meanwhile  no  poetic  voice, 
for  Goldsmith  had  chosen  to  celebrate  English  scenery  and 
manners;  and  Swift  w^as  but  an  Irishman  by  what  Mr.  Bal- 
four has  called  the  visitation  of  God,  and  much  against 
his  will;  and  Congreve  by  education  and  early  associa- 
tion; while  Parnell,  Denham,  and  Roscommon  were  poets 

vii 


viii 


MODERN  IRISH  POETRY. 


but  to  their  own  time.  Nor  did  the  coming  with  the  new 
century  of  the  fame  of  Moore  set  the  balance  even,  for  his 
Irish  melodies  are  too  often  artificial  and  mechanical  in 
their  style  when  separated  from  the  music  that  gave  them 
wings.  Whatever  he  had  of  high  poetry  is  in  ‘ The  Light 
of  Other  Days,^  and  in  ‘ At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night,’  which 
express  what  Matthew  Arnold  has  taught  us  to  call  the 
Celtic  melancholy,”  with  so  much  of  delicate  beauty  in  the 
meaning  and  in  the  wavering  or  steady  rhythm  that  one 
knows  not  where  to  find  their  like  in  literature.  His  more 
artificial  and  mechanical  verse,  because  of  the  ancient 
music  that  makes  it  seem  natural  and  vivid,  and  because 
it  has  remembered  so  many  beloved  names  and  events  and 
places,  has  had  the  influence  which  might  have  belonged  to 
these  exquisite  verses  had  he  written  none  but  these. 

An  honest  style  did  not  come  into  English-speaking  Ire- 
land until  Callanan  wrote  three  or  four  naive  translations 
from  the  Gaelic.  ‘ Shule  Aroon  ’ and  ^ Kathleen  O’More  ’ 
had  indeed  been  written  for  a good  while,  but  had  no  more 
influence  than  Moore’s  best  verses.  Now,  however,  the  lead 
of  Callanan  was  followed  by  a number  of  translators,  and 
they  in  turn  by  the  poets  of  Young  Ireland,  who  mingled 
a little  learned  from  the  Gaelic  ballad  writers  with  a great 
deal  learned  from  Scott,  Macaulay,  and  Campbell,  and 
turned  poetry  once  again  into  a principal  means  for 
spreading  ideas  of  nationality  and  patriotism.  They  were 
full  of  earnestness,  but  never  understand  that,  though  a 
poet  may  govern  his  life  by  his  enthusiasms,  he  must,  when 
he  sits  down  at  his  desk,  but  use  them  as  the  potter  the 
clay.  Their  thoughts  were  a little  insincere,  because  they 
lived  in  the  half-illusions. of  their  admirable  ideals;  and 
their  rhythms  not  seldom  mechanical,  because  their  pur- 
pose was  served  when  they  had  satisfied  the  dull  ears  of 
the  common  man.  They  had  no  time  to  listen  to  the  voice 
of  the  insatiable  artist,  who  stands  erect,  or  lies  asleep 
waiting  until  a breath  arouses  him,  in  the  heart  of  every 
craftsman.  Life  was  their  master,  as  it  had  been  the  mas- 
ter of  the  poets  who  gathered  in  the  Limerick  hostelry, 
though  it  conquered  them  not  by  unreasoned  love  for  a 
woman,  or  for  native  land,  but  by  reasoned  enthusiasm, 
and  practical  energy.  No  man  was  more  sincere,  no  man 


MODERN  IRISH  POETRY. 


ix 


had  a less  mechanical  mind  than  Thomas  Davis,  and  yet 
he  is  often  a little  insincere  and  mechanical  in  his  verse. 
iWhen  he  sat  down  to  write  he  had  so  great  a desire  to 
make  the  peasantry  courageous  and  powerful  that  he  half 
believed  them  already  the  finest  peasantry  upon  the 
earth, and  wrote  not  a few  such  verses  as 

“ Lead  him  to  fight  for  native  land, 

His  is  no  courage  cold  and  wary  ; 

The  troops  live  not  that  could  withstand 
The  headlong  charge  of  Tipperary  ” — 

and  to-day  we  are  paying  the  reckoning  with  much  bom- 
bast. His  little  book  has  many  things  of  this  kind,  and 
yet  we  honor  it  for  its  public  spirit,  and  recognize  its  pow- 
erful influence  with  gratitude.  He  was  in  the  main  an 
orator  influencing  men^s  acts,  and  not  a poet  shaping  their 
emotions,  and  the  bulk  of  his  influence  has  been  good.  He 
was,  indeed,  a poet  of  much  tenderness  in  the  simple  love- 
songs  ^ The  Marriage,’  ^ A Plea  for  Love,’  and  ‘ Mary  Bhan 
Astor,’  and,  but  for  his  ideal  of  a fisherman  defying  a 
foreign  soldiery,  would  have  been  as  good  in  ^ The  Boat- 
man of  Kinsale  ’ ; and  once  or  twice  when  he  touched  upon 
some  historic  sorrow  he  forgot  his  hopes  for  the  future  and 
his  lessons  for  the  present,  and  made  moving  verse. 

His  contemporary,  Clarence  Mangan,  kept  out  of  public 
life  and  its  half-illusions  by  a passion  for  books,  and  for 
drink  and  opium,  made  an  imaginative  and  powerful  style. 
He  translated  from  the  German,  and  imitated  Oriental 
poetry,  but  little  that  he  did  on  any  but  Irish  subjects  has 
a lasting  interest.  He  is  usually  classed  with  the  Young 
Ireland  poets,  because  he  contributed  to  their  periodi- 
cals and  shared  their  political  views;  but  his  style  was 
formed  before  their  movement  began,  and  he  found  it  the 
more  easy  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  to  give  sincere  expres- 
sion to  the  mood  which  he  had  chosen,  the  only  sincerity 
literature  knows  of;  and  with  happiness  and  cultivation 
might  have  displaced  Moore.  But  as  it  was,  whenever  he 
had  no  fine  ancient  song  to  inspire  him,  he  fell  into  rhetoric 
which  was  only  lifted  out  of  commonplace  by  an  arid  in- 
tensity. In  his  ^ Irish  National  Hymn,’  ^ Soul  and  Coun- 
try,’ and  the  like,  we  look  into  a mind  full  of  parched 
sands  where  the  sweet  dews  have  never  fallen.  A miser- 


X 


MODERlSl  IRISH  POETRY, 


able  man  may  think  well  and  express  himself  with  great 
vehemence,  but  he  cannot  make  beautiful  things,  for  Aph- 
rodite never  rises  from  any  but  a tide  of  joy.  Mangan 
knew  nothing  of  the  happiness  of  the  outer  man,  and  it 
was  only  when  prolonging  the  tragic  exultation  of  some 
dead  bard  that  he  knew  the  unearthly  happiness  which 
clouds  the  outer  man  with  sorrow,  and  is  the  fountain  of 
impassioned  art.  Like  those  Avho  had  gone  before  him,  he 
was  the  slave  of  life,  for  he  had  nothing  of  the  self-knowl- 
edge, the  power  of  selection,  the  harmony  of  mind,  which 
enables  the  poet  to  be  its  master,  and  to  mold  the  world 
to  a trumpet  for  his  lips.  But  O’Hussey’s  Ode  over  his 
outcast  chief  must  live  for  generations  because  of  the 
passion  that  moves  through  its  powerful  images  and  its 
mournful,  wayward,  and  fierce  rhythms. 

“ Though  he  were  even  a wolf  ranging  the  round  green  woods, 

Though  he  were  even  a pleasant  salmon  in  the  untamable  sea, 

Though  he  were  a wild  mountain  eagle,  he  could  scarce  bear,  he. 
This  sharp,  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods.” 

Edward  Walsh,  a village  schoolmaster,  who  hovered, 
like  Mangan,  on  the  edge  of  the  Young  Ireland  movement, 
did  many  beautiful  translations  from  the  Gaelic;  and  Mi- 
chael Doheny,  while  out  “ on  his  keeping  in  the  moun- 
tains after  the  collapse  at  Ballingarry,  made  one  of  the 
most  moving  of  ballads;  but  in  the  main  the  poets  who 
gathered  about  Thomas  Davis,  and  w^hose  work  has  come 
down  to  us  in  ‘ The  Spirit  of  the  Nation,’  were  of  practical 
and  political,  not  of  literary,  importance. 

Meanwhile  Samuel  Ferguson,  William  Allingham,  and 
Aubrey  de  Vere  were  working  apart  from  politics;  Fer- 
guson selecting  his  subjects  from  the  traditions  of  the 
bardic  age,  and  Allingham  from  those  of  his  native  Bally- 
shannon,  and  Aubrey  de  Vere  wavering  between  Eng- 
lish, Irish,  and  Catholic  tradition.  They  were  wiser  than 
Young  Ireland  in  the  choice  of  their  models,  for,  while 
drawing  not  less  from  purely  Irish  sources,  they  turned  to 
the  great  poets  of  the  world,  Aubrey  de  Vere  owing  some- 
thing of  his  gravity  to  Wordsworth,  Ferguson  much  of  his 
simplicity  to  Homer,  while  Allingham  had  trained  an  ear, 
too  delicate  to  catch  the  tune  of  but  a single  master,  upon 


MODEm  IRISH  POETRY. 


xi 


the  lyric  poetry  of  many  lands.  Allingham  was  the  best 
artist,  but  Ferguson  had  the  more  ample  imagination,  the 
more  epic  aim.  He  had  not  the  subtlety  of  feeling,  the 
variety  of  cadence  of  a great  lyric  poet,  but  he  has  touched, 
here  and  there,  an  epic  vastness  and  naivete,  as  in  the  de- 
scription in  ^ Congal  ’ of  the  mire-stiftened  mantle  of  the 
giant  specter  Mananan  mac  Lir,  striking  against  his  calves 
with  as  loud  a noise  as  the  mainsail  of  a ship  makes, 
“ when  with  the  coil  of  all  its  ropes  it  beat  the  sounding 
mast.”  He  is  frequently  dull,  for  he  often  lacked  the 
‘‘  minutely  appropriate  words  ” necessary  to  embody 
those  fine  changes  of  feeling  which  enthrall  the  attention ; 
but  his  sense  of  weight  and  size,  of  action  and  tumult,  has 
set  him  apart  and  solitary,  an  epic  figure  in  a lyric  age. 

Allingham,  whose  pleasant  destiny  has  made  him  the 
poet  of  his  native  town,  and  put  ^ The  Winding  Banks  of 
Erne  ’ into  the  mouths  of  the  ballad  singers  of  Ballyshan- 
non,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  a master  of  minutely  appro- 
priate words,”  and  can  wring  from  the  luxurious  sadness 
of  the  lover,  from  the  austere  sadness  of  old  age,  the  last 
golden  drop  of  beauty ; but  amid  action  and  tumult  he  can 
but  fold  his  hands.  He  is  the  poet  of  the  melancholy  peas- 
antry of  the  West,  and,  as  years  go  on,  and  voluminous 
histories  and  copious  romances  drop  under  the  horizon, 
will  take  his  place  among  those  minor  immortals  who  have 
put  their  souls  into  little  songs  to  humble  the  proud. 

The  poetry  of  Aubrey  de  Vere  has  less  architecture  than 
the  poetry  of  Ferguson  and  Allingham,  and  more  medita- 
tion. Indeed,  his  few  but  ever  memorable  successes  are  en- 
chanted islands  in  gray  seas  of  stately  impersonal  reverie 
and  description,  which  drift  by  and  leave  no  definite  rec- 
ollection. One  needs,  perhaps,  to  perfectly  enjoy  him,  a 
Dominican  habit,  a cloister,  and  a breviary. 

These  three  poets  published  much  of  their  best  work 
before  and  during  the  Fenian  movement,  which,  like 
Young  Ireland,  had  its  poets,  though  but  a small  number. 
Charles  Kickham,  one  of  the  triumvirate  ” that  con- 
trolled it  in  Ireland;  John  Casey,  a clerk  in  a flour  mill; 
and  Ellen  O’Leary,  the  sister  of  Mr.  John  O’Leary,  were 
at  times  very  excellent.  Their  verse  lacks,  curiously 
enough,  the  oratorical  vehemence  of  Young  Ireland,  and  is 


xii 


MODERlS^  IRISH  POETRY. 


plaintive  and  idyllic.  The  agrarian  movement  that  fol- 
lowed produced  but  little  poetry,  and  of  that  little  all  is 
forgotten  but  a vehement  poem  by  Fanny  Parnell  and  a 
couple  of  songs  by  T.  D.  Sullivan,  w^ho  is  a good  song 
writer,  though  not,  as  the  writer  has  read  on  an  election 
placard,  one  of  the  greatest  poets  w^ho  ever  moved  the 
heart  of  man.^’  But  while  Nationalist  verse  has  ceased  to 
be  a portion  of  the  propaganda  of  a party,  it  has  been 
written,  and  is  being  written,  under  the  influence  of  the 
Nationalist  newspapers  and  of  Young  Ireland  societies 
and  the  like.  With  an  exacting  conscience,  and  better 
models  than  Thomas  Moore  and  the  Young  Irelanders, 
such  beautiful  enthusiasm  could  not  fail  to  make  some 
beautiful  verses.  But,  as  things  are,  the  rhythms  are  me- 
chanical, and  the  metaphors  conventional ; and  inspiration 
is  too  often  worshiped  as  a Familiar  who  labors  while 
you  sleep,  or  forget,  or  do  many  worthy  things  which  are 
not  spiritual  things. 

For  the  most  part,  the  Irishman  of  our  times  loves  so 
deeply  those  arts  which  build  up  a gallant  personality, 
rapid  writing,  ready  talking,  effective  speaking  to  crowds, 
that  he  has  no  thought  for  the  arts  which  consume  the  per- 
sonality in  solitude.  He  loves  the  mortal  arts  which  have 
given  him  a lure  to  take  the  hearts  of  men,  and  shrinks 
from  the  immortal,  which  could  but  divide  him  from  his 
fellows.  And  in  this  century,  he  who  does  not  strive  to  be 
a perfect  craftsman  achieves  nothing.  The  poor  peasant  of 
the  eighteenth  century  could  make  fine  ballads  by  abandon- 
ing himself  to  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  the  moment,  as  the  reeds 
abandon  themselves  to  the  wind  which  sighs  through  them, 
because  he  had  about  him  a w^orld  where  all  was  old  enough 
to  be  steeped  in  emotion.  But  we  cannot  take  to  ourselves, 
by  merely  thrusting  out  our  hands,  all  we  need  of  pomp 
and  symbol,  and  if  we  have  not  the  desire  of  artistic  per- 
fection for  an  ark,  the  deluge  of  incoherence,  vulgarity, 
and  triviality  will  pass  over  our  heads.  If  we  had  no  other 
symbols  but  the  tumult  of  the  sea,  the  rusted  gold  of  the 
thatch,  the  redness  of  the  quicken-berry,  and  had  never 
known  the  rhetoric  of  the  platform  and  of  the  newspaper, 
we  could  do  without  laborious  selection  and  rejection;  but, 
even  then,  though  we  might  do  much  that  would  be  delight- 


MODERN  IRISH  POETRY, 


xiii 


ful,  that  would  inspire  coming  times,  it  would  not  have  the 
manner  of  the  greatest  poetry. 

Here  and  there,  the  Nationalist  newspapers  and  the 
Young  Ireland  societies  have  trained  a writer  who,  though 
busy  with  the  old  models,  has  ^ome  imaginative  energy; 
while  the  more  literary  writers,  the  successors  of  Ailing- 
ham  and  Ferguson  and  De  Vere,  are  generally  more 
anxious  to  inhuence  and  understand  Irish  thought  than 
any  of  their  predecessors  w^ho  did  not  take  the  sub- 
stance of  their  poetry  from  politics.  They  are  distin- 
guished too  by  their  deliberate  art,  and  by  their  preoc- 
cupation with  spiritual  passions  and  memories. 

The  poetry  of  Lionel  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Hinkson  is 
Catholic  and  devout,  but  Lionel  Johnson’s  is  lofty  and 
austere,  and  like  De  Vere’s  never  long  forgets  the 
greatness  of  his  Church  and  the  interior  life  whose  expres- 
sion it  is,  while  Mrs.  Hinkson  is  happiest  when  she  em- 
bodies emotions,  that  have  the  innocence  of  childhood,  in 
symbols  and  metaphors  from  the  green  world  about  her. 
She  has  no  reverie  nor  speculation,  but  a devout  tenderness 
like  that  of  St.  Francis  for  weak  instinctive  things,  old 
gardeners,  old  fishermen,  birds  among  the  leaves,  birds 
tossed  upon  the  waters.  Miss  Hopper  belongs  to  that 
school  of  writers  which  embodies  passions,  that  are  not  the 
less  spiritual  because  no  Church  has  put  them  into  prayers, 
in  stories  and  symbols  from  old  Celtic  poetry  and  my- 
thology. The  poetry  of  A.  E.,”  at  its  best,  finds  its  sym- 
bols and  its  stories  in  the  soul  itself,  and  has  a more  disem- 
bodied ecstasy  than  any  poetry  of  our  time.  He  is  the 
chief  poet  of  the  school  of  Irish  mystics,  in  which  there  are 
many  poets  besides  many  who  have  heard  the  words,  “If 
ye  know  these  things,  happy  are  ye  if  ye  do  them,”  and 
thought  the  labors  that  bring  the  mystic  vision  more  im- 
portant than  the  labors  of  any  craft. 

Mr.  Herbert  Trench  and  Mrs.  Shorter  and  “ Moira 
O’Neill  ” are  more  interested  in  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
world  than  in  religion.  Mr.  Trench  and  Mrs.  Shorter  have 
put  old  Irish  stories  into  vigorous  modern  rhyme,  and  have 
written,  the  one  in  her  ^ Ceann  dubh  Deelish  ’ and  the  other 
in  ^ Come,  Let  Us  Make  Love  Deathless,’  lyrics  that  should 
become  a lasting  part  of  Irish  lyric  poetry.  “ Moira 


xiv 


MODERN  IRISH  POETRY. 


O’Neill  ” has  written  pretty  lyrics  of  Antrim  life;  but  one 
discovers  that  Mrs.  Hinkson  or  Miss  Hopper,  although 
their  work  is  probably  less  popular,  come  nearer  to  the 
peasant  passion,  when  one  compares  their  work  and  hers 
with  that  Gaelic  song  translated  so  beautifully  by  Dr. 
Sigerson,  where  a ragged  man  of  the  roads,  having  lost  all 
else,  is  yet  thankful  for  the  great  love  gift  of  sorrow,” 
or  with  many  songs  translated  by  Dr.  Hyde  in  his  ‘ Love 
Songs  of  Connacht,’  or  by  Lady  Gregory  in  her  ‘ Poets  and 
Dreamers.’ 

Except  some  few  Catholic  and  mystical  poets  and  Pro- 
fessor Dowden  in  one  or  two  poems,  no  Irishman  living  in 
Ireland  has  sung  excellently  of  any  but  a theme  from  Irish 
experience,  Irish  history,  or  Irish  tradition.  Trinity  Col- 
lege, which  desires  to  be  English,  has  been  the  mother  of 
many  verse  writers  and  of  few  poets ; and  this  can  only  be 
because  she  has  set  herself  against  the  national  genius, 
and  taught  her  children  to  imitate  alien  styles  and  choose 
out  alien  themes,  for  it  is  not  possible  to  believe  that  the 
educated  Irishman  alone  is  prosaic  and  uninventive.  Her 
few  poets  have  been  awakened  by  the  influence  of  the  farm 
laborers,  potato  diggers,  peddlers,  and  hedge  schoolmas- 
ters of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  their  imitators  in  this, 
and  not  by  a scholastic  life,  which,  for  reasons  easy  for  all 
to  understand  and  for  many  to  forgive,  has  refused  the 
ideals  of  Ireland,  while  those  of  England  are  but  far-off 
murmurs.  An  enemy  to  all  enthusiasms,  because  all  enthu- 
siasms seemed  her  enemies,  she  has  taught  her  children  to 
look  neither  to  the  world  about  them,  nor  into  their  own 
souls,  where  some  dangerous  fire  might  slumber. 

To  remember  that  in  Ireland  the  professional  and 
landed  classes  have  been  through  the  mold  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege or  of  English  universities,  and  are  ignorant  of  the 
very  names  of  the  best  Irish  writers,  is  to  know  how 
strong  a wind  blows  from  the  ancient  legends  of  Ireland, 
how  vigorous  an  impulse  to  create  is  in  her  heart  to-day. 
Deserted  by  the  classes  from  among  whom  have  come  the 
bulk  of  the  world’s  intellect,  she  struggles  on,  gradually 
ridding  herself  of  incoherence  and  triviality,  and  slowly 
building  up  a literature  in  English  which,  whether  im- 
portant or  unimportant,  grows  always  more  unlike  others ; 


MOBEm  IRISH  POETRY. 


XV 


nor  does  it  seem  as  if  she  would  long  lack  a living  litera- 
ture in  Gaelic,  for  the  movement  for  the  preservation  of 
Gaelic,  which  has  been  so  much  more  successful  than  any- 
body foresaw,  has  already  its  poets.  Dr.  Hyde  has  written 
Gaelic  poems  which  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  the  west 
of  Ireland.  The  country  people  have  themselves  fitted 
them  to  ancient  airs,  and  many  that  can  neither  read  nor 
write  sing  them  in  Donegal  and  Connemara  and  Galway. 
I have,  indeed,  but  little  doubt  that  Ireland,  communing 
with  herself  in  Gaelic  more  and  more,  but  speaking  to 
foreign  countries  in  English,  will  lead  many  that  are  sick 
with  theories  and  with  trivial  emotion,  to  some  sweet  well- 
waters  of  primeval  poetry. 


IRISH  FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES. 


The  history  of  Ireland  and  of -the  Irish  people  dates 
from  a very  remote  antiquity;  indeed,  its  beginnings  are 
lost  in  the  twilight  of  fable,  but  its  language,  as  Mr.  Doug- 
las Hyde  says,  has  left  the  clearest,  most  luminous,  and 
most  consecutive  literary  track  behind  it  of  any  of  the  ver- 
nacular tongues,^’  excepting  the  Greek. 

Linguistically  speaking,  the  Celtic  people  are  a branch 
of  the  great  Aryan  race.  The  Irish  are  part  of  a vast  Indo- 
European  family  which  countless  ages  ago  spread  to  the 
West  over  a great  part  of  Europe.  The  Gaelic  language 
has  roots  which  go  far  down  toward  the  parent  stock;  its 
literature,  consequently,  is  of  the  utmost  interest  and  value 
to  those  who  seek  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  past  and  to  push 
back  the  horizon  of  knowledge  concerning  it.  The  reader 
will  not,  therefore,  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  Irish  fairy 
tales  and  folk  stories  are  among  the  oldest  of  those  of 
any  of  the  European  races.  Of  all  the  traces  that  man  in 
his  earliest  period  has  left  behind  him  says  Mr.  Douglas 
Hyde  in  his  ^ Beside  the  Fire,^  there  is  nothing  except 
a few’  drilled  stones  or  flint  arrowheads  that  approaches  the 
antiquity  of  these  tales.^’ 

And  although  they  have  man^^  counterparts  in  other 
languages,  w hich  w’ould  seem  to  indicate  a common  origin 
in  the  far  off  past,  notably  in  Oriental  folk  lore,  the 
spirit  of  the  race  is  enshrined  in  them  in  a more  character- 
istic and  striking  degree,  perhaps,  than  in  the  fairy  tales 
and  folk  lore  of  any  other  country.  This  is  doubtless  due 
to  their  preservation  in  the  ancient  Gaelic ; to  the  fact  that 
the  w’andering  bard  has  lingered  longer  in  Ireland  than 
elsewhere,  and  to  the  fact  that  the  professional  story-teller, 
although  fast  disappearing,  is  not  3’et  entirely  extinct  in 
that  country. 

Story-telling  has  always  been  a favorite  amusement  of 
the  Celtic  race.  In  ancient  times  the  professional  story- 
tellers w’ere  classified,  and  w’ere  called,  according  to  their 
rank,  ollaves,  shannachies,  files,  or  bards.  Their  duty  was 
to  recite  old  tales,  poems,  and  descriptions  of  historical 
events  in  prose  or  verse  at  the  festive  gatherings  of  the 

xvii 


xviii 


IRISH  FAIRY  AYD  FOLK  TALES. 


people.  They  were  especially  educated  and  trained  for 
this  profession,  which  was  looked  upon  as  a dignified  and 
important  one,  and  they  were  treated  with  consideration 
and  amply  rewarded  wherever  they  went. 

It  is  recorded  how  the  story-tellers  used  to  gather  to- 
gether of  an  evening,  and  if  any  had  a different  version 
from  the  others,  they  would  all  recite  theirs  and  vote,  and 
the  man  who  had  varied  would  have  to  abide  by  their  ver- 
dict. In  this  way  stories  have  been  handed  down  with 
such  accuracy  that  the  long  tale  of  Dierdre  was,  in  the 
earlier  decades  of  the  eighteenth  century,  told  almost 
word  for  word  as  in  the  very  ancient  MS.  in  the  Royal 
Dublin  Society.  In  one  case  only  it  varied,  and  then  the 
MS.  was  obviously  wrong — a passage  had  been  forgotten 
by  the  copyist.  But  this  accuracy  is  rather  in  the  folk  and 
bardic  tales  than  in  the  fairy  legends,  for  these  vary  widely, 
being  usually  adapted  to  some  neighboring  village  or  local 
fairy-seeing  celebrity. 

While  the  Irish  fairy  tales  and  folk  tales  are  among  the 
oldest  in  the  world,  they  are  also  the  most  numerous  and 
diversified.  Although  the  same  personages  figure  in  them 
over  and  over  again,  many  collectors  have  classified  their 
chief  figures  more  or  less.  The  following  will  give  an  idea 
of  the  main  grouping : 

There  are  the  Sociable  Fairies,’^  who  go  about  in  troops, 
and  quarrel  and  make  love  much  as  men  and  women  do. 
They  are  land  fairies  or  Sheoques  ( Ir.  Sidheog^  a little 
fairy  and  water  fairies  or  Merrows  (Ir.  Moruadh,  a 
sea  maid 

The  Sheoques  haunt  the  sacred  thorn  bushes  and  the 
green  raths  or  royalties — those  little  fields  circled  by 
ditches,  and  supposed  to  have  been  ancient  fortifications 
and  sheepfolds.  Many  a mortal  they  have  said  to  have  en- 
ticed into  their  dim  world.  Many  have  listened  to  their 
fairy  music,  till  human  cares  and  joys  drifted  from  them 
and  they  became  great  seers,  or  fairy  doctors,’’  or  musi- 
cians, or  poets,  like  Carolan,  who  is  said  to  have  gathered 
his  tunes  while  sleeping  on  a fairy  rath ! or  else  they  died 
in  a year  and  a day,  to  live  ever  after  among  the  fairies. 
These  Sheoques  occasionally  steal  a child  and  leave  a with- 
ered fairy,  a thousand  or  maybe  two  thousand  years  old, 
instead. 


IRISH  FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES. 


xix 


The  Merrows  sometimes  come  out  of  the  sea  in  the  shape 
of  little  hornless  cows.  In  their  own  shape,  they  have 
fishes^  tails  and  wear  a red  cap,  called  in  Irish  cohuleen 
driuth.  The  men  among  them  have  green  teeth,  green  hair, 
pigs’  eyes,  and  red  noses;  but  their  women  are  beautiful 
and  sometimes  prefer  handsome  fishermen  to  their  green- 
haired lovers. 

Among  “ Solitary  Fairies’’  is  the  Lepricaun  (Ir.  Leith 
hhrogan,  i.  e.  the  one  shoemaker).  He  is  seen  sitting  under 
a hedge  mending  a shoe,  and  whoso  catches  him  can  make 
him  deliver  up  his  crocks  of  gold,  for  he  is  a miser  of  great 
wealth ; but  if  you  take  your  eyes  off  him  he  vanishes  like 
smoke.  He  wears  a red  coat  with  seven  buttons  in  each  row, 
and  a cocked  hat,  on  the  point  of  which  he  sometimes  spins 
like  a top.  In  Donegal  he  goes  clad  in  a great  frieze  coat. 

The  Chcricaun’s  (Ir.  Clohhair-cean)  occupations  are  rob- 
bing wine  cellars  and  riding  sheep  and  shepherds’  dogs 
the  livelong  night,  until  the  morning  finds  them  panting 
and  mud-covered. 

The  Gonconer  or  Ganconagh  (Ir.  Gean-canogh^  i.e.  love- 
talker)  is  a creature  of  the  Lepricaun  type,  but  a great 
idler.  He  appears  in  lonely  valleys,  pipe  in  mouth,  and 
spends  his  time  in  making  love  to  shepherdesses  and  milk- 
maids. 

The  Far  Darrig  (Ir.  Fear  dearg,  i.  e.  red  man)  is  the 
practical  joker  of  the  other  world.  He  presides  over  evil 
dreams. 

The  Pooka  (Ir.  Puca^  a word  derived  by  some  from  poo, 
a he-goat)  also  is  of  the  family  of  the  nightmare.  His 
shape  is  usually  that  of  a horse,  bull,  goat,  eagle,  or  ass. 
His  delight  is  to  get  a rider,  with  whom  he  rushes  through 
ditches  and  rivers  and  over  mountains,  and  whom  he 
shakes  off  in  the  gray  of  the  morning.  Especially  does  he 
love  to  plague  a drunkard ; a drunkard’s  sleep  is  his  king- 
dom. At  times  he  takes  more  unexpected  forms  than  those 
of  beast  or  bird.  When  it  rains  in  Ireland  at  the  same  time 
that  the  sun  is  shining  it  is  a sure  sign  that  the  Pooka  will 
be  out  that  night. 

The  Dullahan  has  no  head,  or  carries  it  under  his  arm. 
He  is  often  seen  driving  a black  coach,  called  coach-a- 
bower  ” (Ir.  Colte-hodliar) , drawn  by  headless  horses.  It 
rumbles  to  your  door,  and  if  you  open  it  a basin  of  blood  is 


XX 


IRISH  FAIRY  ARD  FOLK  TALES. 


thrown  in  your  face.  It  is  an  omen  of  death  to  the  houses 
where  it  pauses. 

The  Leanhaun  Slice  (Ir.  Leanhami  sidhCy  i.e.  fairy  mis- 
tress) seeks  the  love  of  men.  If  they  refuse,  she  is  their 
slave;  if  they  consent,  they  are  hers,  and  can  escape  only 
by  finding  one  to  take  their  place.  Her  lovers  waste  away, 
for  she  lives  on  their  life. 

The  Far  Gorta  (man  of  hunger)  is  an  emaciated  fairy 
that  goes  through  the  land  in  famine  time,  begging  and 
bringing  good  luck  to  the  giver. 

The  Banshee  (Ir.  Bean-sidhe,  i.e.  fairy  woman)  is  a so- 
ciable fairy  grown  solitary  through  much  sorrow.  The 
name  corresponds  to  the  less  common  Far  Shee  (Ir.  Fear 
sidhe),  a man  fairy.  She  wails,  as  most  people  know,  over 
the  death  of  a member  of  some  old  Irish  family. 

There  are  also  the  “ House  Spirits  : the  Water  Sherie,  a 
kind  of  will-o^-the-wisp ; the  Soiolth,  a formless  luminous 
creature;  the  Pastha  (piasthestia) , the  lake  dragon,  a 
guardian  of  hidden  treasure;  and  the  Bo  men  fairies,  who 
destroy  the  unwary ; and  there  is  the  great  tribe  of  ghosts, 
called  Thivishes  in  some  parts. 

Representative  stories  of  each  of  these  groups  will  be 
found  in  the  writings  of  those  who  have  made  it  their  busi- 
ness to  collect  and  retell  the  fairy  tales  and  folk  lore  of  the 
country,  and  we  have,  under  the  heading  of  Fairy  and 
Folk  Tales  of  Ireland,  anonymous,’’  brought  together  a few 
of  the  typical  stories  to  which  no  names  are  attached. 

And  there  is  fairy  poetry  as  well,  of  which  not  a little 
is  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  the  Irish  poets  from  William 
Allingham  to  William  Butler  Yeats.  But  it  is  not  so 
abundant  as  one  might  expect.  The  ancient  myths  and 
legends  and  the  half-mythical  history  of  Ireland  and  her 
manifold  wrongs  and  sufferings  seem  to  have  appealed 
more  to  the  Irish  poetical  spirit. 

The  very  first  collections  of  fairy  tales  and  folk  tales 
are  of  course  to  be  found  in  the  old  Chap-books.  They 
are,”  says  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats,  to  be  found  brown  with  turf 
smoke  on  cottage  shelves,  and  are,  or  were,  sold  on  every 
hand  by  the  peddlers,  but  cannot  be  found  in  any  library  of 
this  city  of  the  Sassanach  (London).  ‘The  Royal  Fairy 
Tales,’  ‘ The  Hibernian  Tales,’  and  ‘ The  Legends  of  the 
Fairies  ’ are  the  fairy  literature  of  the  people.” 


IRISH  FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES.  xxi 

Of  a certain  volume  of  the  ^ Hibernian  Tales/  Thack- 
eray writes  pleasantly  in  his  ‘ Irish  Sketch  Book/  remark- 
ing : So  great  is  the  superiority  of  the  old  stories  over  the 

new,  in  fancy,  dramatic  interest,  and  humor,  that  one  canT 
help  fancying  that  Hibernia  must  have  been  a very  superior 
country  to  Ireland.^^ 

These  Hibernian  novels,  too,^^  he  continues,  are  evi- 
dently intended  for  the  hedge-school  universities.  They 
have  the  old  tricks  and  some  of  the  old  plots  that  one  has 
read  in  many  popular  legends  of  almost  all  countries, 
European  and  Eastern ; successful  cunning  is  the  great  vir- 
tue applauded;  and  the  heroes  pass  through  a thousand 
wild  extravagant  dangers,  such  as  could  only  have  been 
invented  when  art  was  young  and  faith  was  large.  And 
as  the  honest  old  author  of  the  tales  says  they  are  suited 
to  the  meanest  as  well  as  to  the  highest  capacity,  tending 
both  to  improve  the  fancy  and  enrich  the  mind,  let  us  con- 
clude the  night’s  entertainment  by  reading  one  or  two  of 
them,  and  reposing  after  the  doleful  tragedy  which  has 
been  represented.  The  ‘ Black  Thief  ’ is  worthy  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  I think — as  wild  and  odd  as  an  Eastern 
tale.  . . . Not  a little  does  it  add  to  these  tales  that  one 
feels  as  one  reads  them  that  the  writer  must  have  believed 
in  his  heart  what  he  told ; you  see  the  tremor,  as  it  were,  and 
the  wild  look  of  the  eyes  as  he  sits  in  his  corner  and  recites 
and  peers  wistfully  around  lest  the  spirits  he  talks  of  be 
really  at  hand.”  And  after  telling  us  the  Chap-book  ver- 
sion of  the  story  of  ‘ Hudden,  Dudden,  and  Donald,’  and  of 
‘‘  the  Spaeman,”  he  says : “ And  so  we  shut  up  the  hedge- 
school  library,  and  close  the  Galway  Nights’  Entertain- 
ments ; they  are  not  as  amusing  as  Almack,  to  be  sure,  but 
mau}^  a lady  who  has  her  opera  box  in  London  has  listened 
to  a piper  in  Ireland.” 

It  is  significant  of  how  Ireland’s  contribution  to  English 
literature  in  every  department  has  been  ignored  by  the  Eng- 
lish, and  in  consequence  by  the  entire  literary  world,  that  in 
the  two  great  collections  of  Chap-books  made  by  the  elder 
and  the  younger  Boswell,  which  are  now  in  the  library  of 
Harvard  University,  there  are  scarcely  any  of  Irish  ori- 
gin, though  England  and  Scotland  are  fully  represented; 
and  yet  during  the  period  covered  by  these  collections,  as 
these  remarks  by  Thackeray  and  W.  B.  Yeats  vrould  indi- 


xxii  IRISH  FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES, 

cate,  her  output  of  this  literature  was  as  large  as,  if  not 
larger  than,  that  of  either  England  or  Scotland.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  a certain  purchase  made  by  Thackeray  at 
Ennis  when  on  his  tour  through  Ireland,  and  for  a certain 
rainy  day  in  Galway  about  1840,  the  English  people  would 
probably  never  have  known  that  the  Irish  people  had  their 
Chap-books  from  the  fifteenth  to  the  nineteenth  century 
as  well  as  the  people  of  almost  all  other  European  coun- 
tries. 

The  systematic  collection  of  Celtic  folk  tales  in  English 
began  in  Ireland  as  early  as  1825,  with  T.  Crofton  Croker’s 
‘ Fairy  Legends  and  Traditions  of  the  South  of  Ireland.’ 
Among  the  novelists  and  tale- writers  of  the  schools  of  Miss 
Edgeworth  and  Lever  folk  tales  were  occasionally  utilized, 
as  by  Carleton  in  his  ^ Traits  and  Stories,’  by  Lover  in 
his  ^ Legends  and  Stories,’  and  by  Griffin  in  his  ^ Tales 
of  a Jury  Boom.’  These  all  tell  their  tales  in  the  manner 
of  the  stage  Irishman.  Patrick  Kennedy,  a Dublin  book- 
seller, printed  about  one  hundred  folk  and  hero  tales  and 
drolls  in  his  ‘ Legendary  Fictions  of  the  Irish  Celts,’  1866 ; 
‘ Fireside  Stories  of  Ireland,’  1870;  and  ^ Bardic  Stories  of 
Ireland,’  1871.  Lady  Wilde  has  told  many  folk  tales  very 
effectively  in  her  ‘ Ancient  Legends  of  Ireland,’  1887. 
Mr.  J.  Curtin’s  ^ Myths  and  Folk  Tales  of  Ireland,’  1890, 
must  not  be  forgotten.  Douglas  Hyde  has  published  in 
^ Beside  the  Fireside,’  1891,  English  versions  of  some  of 
the  stories  he  had  published  in  the  original  Irish  in  his 
^ Leahbar  Sgeulaighteachta,’  Dublin,  1889.  Miss  Mac 
Lintock  has  published  many  tales  in  various  periodicals 
during  the  past  twenty  years ; a period  which  has  been  re- 
markably fruitful  in  active  workers  in  this  hitherto  com- 
paratively untilled  field.  P.  W.  Joyce’s  ‘ Old  Celtic  Ro- 
mances,’ W.  Larminie’s  ^ West  Irish  Folk  Tales,’  P.  J. 
McCall’s  ‘ Fenian  Nights’  Entertainments,’  Seumus  Mac- 
Manus’  ^ Donegal  Fairy  Tales,’  D.  Deeney’s  ^ Peasant 
Lore  from  Gaelic  Ireland,’  and  many  other  books  too  nu- 
merous to  mention  are  rich  in  material  of  this  kind.  But 
Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  Lady  Gregory,  and  W.  B.  Yeats  have 
done  more  than  all  to  reveal  to  us  “ the  old  weird  world 
which  sleeps  in  Irish  lore.”  They  know  the  people  of  Ire* 
land  thoroughly,  and  in  their  works  they  give  us  not  only 
the  folk  and  fairy  tales  of  the  people,  but  they  make  us  feel 


IRISH  FAIRY  AIW  FOLK  TALES,  xxiii 

how  entirely  they  enter  into  and  pervade  and  influence 
their  every-day  lives. 

One  reason,  perhaps,  why  the  Irish  people  are  as  a rule 
so  supremely  gifted  with  the  power  of  poetical  self  expres- 
sion, why  they  are  endowed  with  so  rich  and  luxurious  a 
fancy,  is  because  for  centuries  they  have  been  nourished  on 
such  a wealth  of  fairy  tales  and  wonder  stories  as  is  ex- 
ceeded by  no  other  literature  of  the  world. 

Emerson  says,  What  nature  at  one  time  provides  for 
use,  she  afterward  turns  to  ornament,^’  and  Herbert  Spen- 
cer, following  out  this  idea,  remarks  that  the  fairy  lore, 
which  in  times  past  was  matter  of  grave  belief  and  held 
sway  over  people’s  conduct,  has  since  been  transformed 
into  ornament  for  ‘ The  Midsummer  Night’s  Dream,’  ‘ The 
Tempest,’  ^ The  Faerie  Queene,’  and  endless  small  tales  and 
poems;  and  still  affords  subjects  for  children’s  story  books, 
amuses  boys  and  girls,  and  becomes  matter  for  jocose  allu- 
sion.” 

Sir  Walter  Scott  also'  says,  in  a note  to  ^ The  Lady  of 
the  Lake  ’ : The  mythology  of  one  period  would  appear  to 

pass  into  the  romance  of  the  next,  and  that  into  the  nur- 
sery tales  of  subsequent  ages  ” ; and  Max  Muller,  in  his 
‘ Chips  from  a German  Workshop,’  says : The  gods  of 

ancient  mythology  were  changed  into  the  demigods  and 
heroes  of  ancient  epic  poetry,  and  these  demigods  and 
heroes  again  become  at  a later  age  the  principal  characters 
of  our  nursery  tales.” 

In  just  the  same  way  many  of  the  Irish  folk  tales  are 
the  detritus  of  the  ancient  bardic  stories,  and  we  can  see 
this  detrition  in  actual  process  in  Ireland  to-day,  where  the 
belief  in  the  fairies  and  legends  still  exists  in  the  minds 
of  many  of  the  older  folks.  As  Lady  Wilde  says  in  her  in- 
troduction to  ^ Irish  Legends  ’ : With  the  highly  sensitive 

organization  of  their  race,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  the 
people  live  habitually  under  the  shadow  and  dread  of  in- 
visible powers  which,  whether  working  for  good  or  evil, 
are  awful  and  mysterious  to  the  uncultured  mind  that  sees 
only  the  strange  results  produced  by  certain  forces,  but 
knows  nothing  of  the  approximate  causes.”  And  so  Tir- 
nan-og,  the  country  of  the  young,  the  place  where  you  will 
get  happiness  for  a penny,  so  cheap  and  common  will  it  be, 
is  still  devoutly  believed  in  by  many  to  whom  Hy  Braesil, 


xxiv  IRISH  FAIRY  AXD  FOLK  TALES. 

the  Island  of  the  Blest,  is  also  something  more  than  a 
name. 

And  it  is  not  a little  curious  to  note  in  this  connection 
that,  while  the  fairy  tales  of  other  lands  have  long  been  the 
natural  literature  of  childhood,  it  is  only  in  later  years  that 
even  in  Ireland  itself  her  fairy  tales,  folk  lore,  wonder  tales, 
and  hero  stories  have  figured  in  books  especially  made  for 
young  people. 

The  fairy  tales  and  folk  lore  of  Ireland  should  have 
a special  interest  not  alone  for  Irish-Americans,  but  for 
that  greater  American  nation  which  is  being  evolved  out  of 
the  mixture  of  the  blood  of  all  the  races  of  the  world,  to- 
day. We  inherit,  we  are  infused  by,  and  we  are  trans- 
muting into  terms  of  national  individuality,  all  the  ro- 
mance, all  the  culture,  all  the  art,  and  all  the  literature 
of  the  past,  of  all  the  nations  of  the  world. 

And  when  this  individuality  shall  have  been  achieved, 
we  shall  have  a culture  which  will  be  distinctly  American, 
we  shall  have  an  art  which  will  be  distinctly  American,  we 
shall  have  a literature  which  will  be  distinctly  American 

There  has  entered,  and  there  will  enter,  into  the  com 
position  of  this  new  and  individual  race,  a greater  infu, 
sion  of  the  Celtic  element  than  of  any  other,  and  it  is  there, 
fore  of  the  highest  importance  that  the  literature  in  which 
this  element  has  been  cradled,  the  literature  to  which  the 
Celtic  spirit  responds  most  quickly  and  with  the  happiest 
results,  should  form  part  of  the  mental  nourishment  of  our 
young  people,  in  the  form  of  the  fairy  tales  and  folk  lore  of 
Ireland. 

We  have  given  our  children  freely  for  the  last  two  hun 
dred  years  of  the  English  Mother  Goose  rhymes  and  fairy 
tales,  of  the  German,  and  even  of  the  Norse  fairy  tales  and 
romances — much  of  the  content  and  idea  of  which  is  re- 
mote, and  to  which  because  of  race-inherited  feelings  and 
tendencies,  they  cannot  respond — while  we  have  left  un- 
heeded the  vast  treasures  which  exist  in  Irish  fairy  litera- 
ture, a literature  which  makes  the  strongest  appeal  to  the 
largest  ingredient  in  the  composition  of  the  new  American 
race  which  is  being  evolved. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  III. 


Modern  Irish  Poetry. — W.  B.  Yeats 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales. — Charles  Welsh  . 

Daunt,  William  Joseph  O’Neill  . . . . 

Repealers  in  Prison  and  Out,  fr.  ^ Eighty-five 
Years  of  Irish  History  ’ . 

King  Bagenal,  fr.  ‘ Eighty-five  Years  of  Irish 
History  ’ ....  ... 

A Facetious  Irish  Peer,  fr.  ^ Eighty-five  Years  of 
Irish  History  ’ 

Davis,  Thomas  Osborne 

Fontenoy 

Oh ! the  marriage  ...... 

A Nation  Once  Again 

My  Grave . 

The  West ’s  Asleep  ...... 

The  Girl  of  Dunbwy 

The  Welcome 

My  Land 

Davitt,  Michael 

How  the  Anglo-Irish  Problem  Could  be  Solved, 
fr.  ^ Leaves  from  a Prison  Diary  ’ . 

Despair  and  Hope  in  Prison,  fr.  ^ Leaves  from 
a Prison  Diary  ’ 

Dawson,  Arthur 

Bumpers,  Squire  Jones 

Deeny,  Daniel 

A Midnight  Funeral,  fr.  ^ Peasant  Lore  from 

Gaelic  Ireland  ’ 

A Little  Woman  in  Red,  fr.  ^ Peasant  Lore 
from  Gaelic  Ireland  ’ 

XXV 


PAGE 

vii 

xvii 

811 

811 

817 

819 

822 

823 

826 

827 

827 

828 

829 

830 

831 

832 
832 

837 

841 

841 

845 

845 

846 


XXVI 


CONTENTS. 


PAQE 

Strange  Indeed ! fr.  ^ Peasant  Lore  from  Gaelic 
Ireland  ’ 847 

Denham,  Sir  John 849 

View  of  London  from  Cooper’s  Hill  . . . 850 

De  Vere,  Sir  Aubrey  . . . . . . . 851 

Lady  Jane  Grey,  fr.  ^ Mary  Tudor’  . . 851 

Liberty  of  the  Press 852 

The  Shannon 852 

De  Verb,  Aubrey  Thomas 853 

How  to  Govern  Ireland,  fr.  ^ English  Misrule 

and  Irish  Misdeeds  ’ 854 

The  Sun  God 858 

The  Little  Black  Rose 858 

Dirge  of  Rory  O’More 859 

Song 859 

Sorrow 860 

The  Wedding  of  the  Clans  ....  860 

Flowers  I would  bring 861 

Song 862 

The  Long  Dying 863 

Doheny,  Michael 864 

A Cushla  Gal  Mo  Chree 864 

Dowden,  Edward 866 

The  Interpretation  of  Literature,  fr.  ^ Trans- 
cripts and  Studies  ’ 866 

England  in  Shakespeare’s  Youth  . . . 869 

The  Humor  of  Shakespeare,  fr.  ^ Shakespeare : 

A Critical  Study  ’ 870 

Shakespeare’s  Portraiture  of  Women,  fr. 

^ Transcripts  and  Studies  ’ . . . . 875 

Aboard  the  Sea-Swallow  . . . . .876 

Oasis 876 

Leonardo’s  Monna  Lisa 877 

Dowling,  Bartholomew 8T8 

The  Brigade  at  Fontenoy 878 


CONTENTS. 


xxvu 


PAGE 

Dowling,  Richard 881 

A Guide  to  Ignorance,  fr.  ^ Ignorant  Essays  ^ . 881 

On  Dublin  Castle 887 

Downey,,  Edmund 891 

From  Portlaw  to  Paradise  ....  891 
King  John  and  the  Mayor  ....  900 

Raleigh  in  Munster 909 

Downing,  Ellen  Mary  Patrick  ....  916 

My  Owen 916 

Talk  by  the  Blackwater 916 

Doyle,  James  Warren 918 

The  True  Friends  of  the  Poor  and  the  Afflicted, 
fr.  ^ Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland  ^ . . 919 

Drennan,  William  .......  924 

Erin  . . . .' 924 

The  Wake  of  William  Orr 925 

Drennan,  William,  Jr 928 

The  Battle  of  Beal-An-Atha-Buidh  , . . 928 

Drummond,  William  Hamilton  ....  930 

Ode  Written  on  Leaving  Ireland,  fr.  the  Irish 
of  Gerald  Nugent 930 

Dufferin,  Lady 932 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  ....  933 
Terence’s  Farewell  ;.....  934 
Katey’s  Letter 935 

Dufferin,  Lord 937 

On  Irishmen  as  Rulers 938 

An  Icelandic  Dinner,  fr.  ‘ Letters  From  High 
Latitudes  ’ 942 

DuFFET,  Thomas 948 

Come  all  you  pale  lovers  ....  948 

Duffy,  Sir  Charles  Gavan 950 

A Dispute  with  Carlyle,  fr.  ^ Conversations 
with  Carlyle’ 951 


XXVlll 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Muster  of  the  North 954 

The  Irish  Rapparees 957 

The  Irish  Chiefs 959 

Innishowen 961 

Dunraven,  Earl  of 963 

A City  in  the  Great  West,  fr.  ^ The  Great  Di- 
vide ^ 963 

Eccles,  Charlotte  O’Connor 967 

King  William 967 

Edgeworth,  Maria 993 

Castle  Rackrent 995 

Continuation  of  the  Memoirs  of  the  Rackrent 

Family 1014 

The  Originality  of  Irish  Bulls  Examined,  fr. 

^ Irish  Bulls  ’ 1055 

Little  Dominick,  fr.  ^ Irish  Bulls  ’ . . 1060 

Waste  Not,  Want  Not 1068 

• Edgeworth,  Richard  Lovell 1073 

My  Boyhood  Days,  fr.  Memoirs  . . . 1073 

Egan,  Maurice  Francis 1080 

The  Orange  Lilies,  fr.  ‘ The  Land  of  St.  Law- 
rence ’ 1080 

The  Shamrock 1085 

Eglington,  John.  See  Magee,  William  K. 

Emmet,  Robert 1086 

liast  Speech 1087 

Lines  on  the  Burying-Ground  of  Arbor  Hill  . 1094 

Esler,  Mrs 1096 

The  Criminality  of  Letty  Moore  . . . 1096 

Ettingsall,  Thomas 1114 

Darby  Doyle ’s  Voyage  to  Quebec  . . . 1114 

Fahy,  Francis  A 1124 

How  to  Become  a Poet 1124 

The  Donovans 1132 

Irish  Molly  O 1133 


CONTENTS.  xxix 

PAGE 

The  Ould  Plaid  Shawl 1134 

Little  Mary  Cassidy 1135 

Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  of  Ireland,  Anonymous  . 1136 
Will-o^-the*Wisp,  fr.  ^ Hibernian  Tales  ’ . . 1136 

Loughleagh  (Lake  of  Healing)  . . . 1142 

Donald  and  His  Neighbors,  fr.  ‘ Hibernian 

Tales  ^ 1147 

Queen^s  County  Witch,  A . . . . 1150 

The  Fairy  Greyhound 1154 

The  Countess  Kathleen  O’Shea  . . . 1157 

Kent-Day . 1160 

Conversion  of  King  Laoghaire’s  Daughters  . 1162 

Farquhar,  George 1164 

The  Counterfeit  Footman,  fr.  ^ The  Beaux’ 
Stratagem  ^ 1165 

Father  Prout.  See  Mahony,  Francis  Sylvester. 

Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel 1168 

Speech  on  Robert  Burns,  fr.  ^ Tlie  Ireland  of 

His  Day  ^ 1170 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor  ....  1174 

Lament  Over  the  Ruins  of  the  Abbey  of  Time- 

league  1177 

Owen  Bawn 1179 

Cashel  of  Munster 1181 

Molly  Asthore 1182 

Cean  Dubh  Deelish 1183 

The  Lapful  of  Nuts 1183 

Pastheen  Fion 1184 

Fair  Hills  of  Ireland 1185 

Looking  Seaward,  fr.  ^ Congal  ’ . . . 1185 

Grace  Nugent,  fr.  the  Irish  of  O’Carolan  . 1186 

Mild  Mabel  Kelly 1187 

The  Coolun,  fr.  the  Irish  of  Maurice  Dugan  . 1188 

Fitzgerald,  Percy  Hetherington  ....  1190 

Sheridan  as  an  Orator,  fr.  ^ Lives  of  the  Sheri- 
dans ^ 1190 

2— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


XXX 


CONTENTS. 


Fitzpatrick,  William  John 

Anecdotes  of  Keogh,  the  Irish  Massillon,  fr. 
‘ Irish  Wits  and  Worthies  ^ . . . 

Fitzsimon,  Ellen  O’Connell 

Song  of  the  Irish  Emigrant,  or  the  Woods  of 
Caillino 

Flecknoe,  Richard 

Of  Drinking 

On  Travel 

Flood,  Henry 

Flood’s  Reply  to  Grattan’s  Invective 
A Defense  of  the  Volunteers  . . . . 

On  a Commercial  Treaty  with  France 

Forrester,  Mrs.  Ellen 

The  Widow’s  Message  to  her  Son 

Fox,  George 

The  County  of  Mayo,  fr.  the  Irish  of  Tliomas 
Flavell 

Francis,  M.  E.  See  Mrs.  Blundell. 

Francis,  Sir  Philip 

To  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  fr.  ‘ The  Letters  of 
J unius  ’ ....... 

French,  William  Percy 

The  First  Lord  Liftinant  .... 

Furlong,  Alice 
The  Trees 


PAGE 

1199 

1199 

1206 

1206 

1208 

1209 

1209 

1210 
1212 
1217 

1219 

1220 
1222 

1224 

1224 


1226 

1228 

1233 

1233 

1239 

1239 


WILLIAM  JOSEPH  O’NEILL  DAUNT. 


(1807—1894.) 

William  Joseph  O’Neill  Daunt,  the  able  historical  writer,  was 
born  at  Fullamore,  King’s  County,  April  28,  1807,  and  died  June 
29,  1894.  He  was  for  some  years  associated  Avith  Daniel  O’Con- 
nell in  a secretarial  capacity,  and  throughout  his  long  life  he  was 
steadfast  in  his  admiration  for  that  great  leader  and  in  his  intense 
hostility  to  English  rule  in  Ireland. 

His  first  published  work  was  ‘ Ireland  and  Her  Agitators,’  1845, 
which  was  followed  by  ‘ Hugh  Talbot,  a Tale  of  the  Irish  Confisca- 
tions,’ 1846.  In  1848  he  issued  his  valuable  ‘ Personal  Recollections 
of  O’Connell,’  and  in  1851  his  ‘ Catechism  of  Irish  History,’  which 
was  a text-book  in  Irish  schools,  and  a novel  entitled  ‘ The  Gentle- 
man in  Debt.’  During  the  later  part  of  his  life  he  lived  quietly  as 
a country  gentleman,  but  that  he  had  not  lost  any  of  his  early 
views  is  proved  by  his  ‘ Essays  on  Ireland,’  1886,  and  his  ‘ Eighty- 
Five  Years  of  Irish  History,’  published  in  the  same  year. 

After  his  death  his  daughter  published  in  1896,  under  the  title  of 
‘ A Life  Spent  for  Ireland,’  his  personal  diary,  a most  entertaining 
volume,  full  of  good  stories  and  valuable  side-lights  on  the  history 
of  his  times. 

REPEALERS  IN  PRISON  AND  OUT. 

From  ‘ Eighty-five  Years  of  Irish  History.’ 

O’Connell,  on  the  evening  of  his  incarceration,  had  ex- 
claimed: Thank  God,  I am  in  jail  for  Ireland!”  He 

believed  that  Peel’s  false  move  tended  to  augment  the 
strength  of  the  national  cause.  All  the  prisoners  dined 
together,  and  the  party  wore  anything  but  a tragical  air. 
They  all  enjoyed  the  exhilaration  of  spirits  arising  from 
a hope  that,  whatever  inconveniences  they  might  sustain, 
their  imprisonment  would  accelerate  the  triumph  of  the 
cause  that  was  nearest  to  their  hearts. 

They  were  for  the  first  few  days  occupied  with  the 
bustle  of  fixing  themselves  in  their  new  quarters.  At  last 
they  settled  down  into  something  like  their  usual  habits. 
Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  the  editor  of  The  Nation;  Doctor 
(afterwards  Sir  John)  Gray,  the  editor  of  The  Freeman; 
and  Richard  Barrett,  the  editor  of  The  Pilot,  found  abun- 
dant employment  superintending  their  several  journals. 
The  moments  unoccupied  by  business  they  devoted  to  study, 

811 


812 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


or  to  taking  exercise  in  the  adjoining  garden.  Mr.  Duffj, 
under  the  impression  that  the  imprisonment  would  last  a 
year,  announced  his  purpose  of  reading  through  Carte’s 
‘ Life  of  Ormond,’  in  three  folio  volumes.  Mr.  Kay  still 
exercised  his  supervision  of  the  affairs  of  the  Associa- 
tion. John  O’Connell  wrote  his  amusing  and  instructive 
‘ Repeal  Dictionary,’  which  appeared  in  the  weekly  press, 
and  which  I believe  was  subsequently  published  in  a col- 
lected form.  Steele  read  Kane’s  ^ Industrial  Resources 
of  Ireland,’  and  defaced  the  fair,  pages  of  the  work 
with  innumerable  marks  of  admiration.  Barrett  was 
ready  for  fun, — frisk,  joyous  frolic  of  any  sort,  and  more 
than  once  kept  the  incarcerated  coterie  in  roars  of  laugh- 
ter by  attitudinizing  and  grimacing  in  a style  that  would 
have  done  honor  to  Liston.  Two  of  the  visitors  played 
the  short-armed  orator;  the  comic  force  of  the  pathetic 
passages  being  much  enhanced  by  a cambric  handker- 
chief, which  the  gentleman  who  performed  the  action  held 
to  the  weeping  eyes  of  the  gentleman  who  performed  the 
eloquence.  Nearly  all  the  prisoners  contributed  to  the 
pages  of  a jeu  d’esprit  called  Prison  Gazette,  in  which 
they  quizzed  each  other  and  their  friends  with  merry  mal- 
ice. In  short,  there  never  were  prisoners  who  bore  so 
lightly  and  joyously  the  hours  of  imprisonment,  or  whose 
deprivation  of  freedom  was  more  soothed  by  the  kind  and 
sympathetic  offices  of  friends. 

They  had  access  to  two  gardens.  In  one  of  these  was  a 
mound  with  a summer-house  on  the  top.  The  mound 
they  amused  themselves  by  calling  Tara  Hill ; the  summer- 
house was  termed  Conciliation  Hall.  In  the  other  garden 
they  erected  a large  marquee,  which  they  styled  Mullagh- 
mast,  and  in  this  marquee  were  received  the  numerous 
deputations  who  bore  addresses  to  the  convicts  ” from 
the  different  quarters  of  the  kingdom.  I learned  from  a 
gentleman,  who  was  present  on  one  of  these  occasions, 
that  O’Connell  replied  to  the  bearers  of  an  address  in  the 
following  words : Tell  your  friends  that  my  heart  is  joy- 

ful, my  spirits  are  buoyant,  my  health  is  excellent,  my 
hopes  are  high.  My  imprisonment  is  not  irksome  to  me, 
for  I feel  and  know  that  it  will,  under  Providence,  be  the 
means  of  making  our  country  a nation  again.  I am  glad 
I am  in  prison.  There  wanted  but  this  to  my  career.  I 


WILLIAM  JOSEPH  O’NEILL  DAUNT, 


813 


have  labored  for  Ireland — refused  office,  honor  and 
emolument  for  Ireland — I have  prayed  and  hoped  and 
watched  for  Ireland — there  was  yet  one  thing  wanted — 
that  I should  be  in  jail  for  Ireland.  This  has  now  been 
added  to  the  rest,  thanks  to  our  enemies;  and  I cordially 
rejoice  at  it.^^ 

O’Connell,  in  the  course  of  that  day,  was  waited  on  by 
a party  of  American  tourists.  When  they  arrived,  he 
was  standing  on  the  top  of  Tara  Hill.”  The^^  doffed 
their  hats  and  remained  at  the  foot  of  the  mound  until 
desired  to  walk  up.  You  are  probably  more  visited 
here,”  said  one  of  them,  than  if  you  were  at  large.” 
Yes,”  replied  the  Liberator,  and  here  I cannot  use  the 
excuse  of  ^ not  at  home.’  ” 

The  progress  of  Repeal  during  his  imprisonment  en- 
chanted him.  The  people,”  said  he,  are  behaving 
nobly.  I was  at  first  a little  afraid,  despite  all  my  teach- 
ing, that  at  such  a tr^dng  crisis  they  would  have  done 
either  too  much  or  too  little — either  have  been  stung  into 
an  outbreak,  or  else  awed  into  apathy.  Neither  has  hap- 
pened. Blessed  be  God!  the  people  are  acting  nobly. 
What  it  is  to  have  such  a people  to  lead ! ” 

He  rejoiced  especially  over  the  excellent  training  of  the 
Repeal  Association;  praised  the  young  talent  called  forth 
by  the  movement,  bestowing  particular  eulogy  on  Mac- 
Nevin  and  Barry. 

In  the  days  of  the  Catholic  Association,”  said  he,  I 
used  to  have  more  trouble  than  I can  express  in  keeping 
down  mutiny.  I always  arrived  in  town  about  the  25th 
of  October,  and  on  my  arrival  I invariably  found  some 
jealousies,  some  squabbles — some  fellow  trying  to  be 
leader,  which  gave  me  infinite  annoyance.  But  now  all 
goes  right — no  man  is  jealous  of  any  other  man;  each 
does  his  best  for  the  general  cause.” 

Speaking  of  his  pacific  polic}^,  he  remarked  that  it  was 
a curious  coincidence  that  the  Conal  of  Ossian  should 
sajq  My  sword  hangs  at  my  side — the  blade  longs  to 
shine  in  my  hand — but  I love  the  peace  of  green  Erin  of 
the  streams.” 

The  convicted  patriots  received  numerous  presents  of 
fresh  fruits  and  flowers.  A patriotic  confectioner  pre- 
sented them  with  two  monster  cakes.  Mr.  Scriber  of 


814 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Westmoreland  Street  sent  them  seven  musical-boxes  to 
cheer  their  imprisonment;  and  it  is  said  that,  imme- 
diately on  the  arrival  of  the  harmonious  cargo,  the  pris- 
oners evinced  their  satisfaction  with  more  musical  zeal 
than  taste — by  setting  the  seven  boxes  playing  together. 

Mr.  Steele  one  day  placed  a stone  which  he  dignified 
with  the  name  of  Liach  Fail,  or  the  Stone  of  Destiny,  on 
the  side  of  the  mimic  Tara  Hill  in  the  garden,  calling  on 
Dufty  to  doff  his  hat  in  honor  of  the  august  ceremony. 

With  these  and  similar  helps  and  devices  did  the  pris- 
oners try  to  cheat  the  hours  of  that  bondage  which,  under 
every  circumstance  of  mitigation,  must  ever  be  oppressive 
to  men  of  ardent  minds  and  active  habits.  One  day  John 
O’Connell  made  some  remark  on  the  high,  gloomy  prison 
buildings,  which  excluded  the  view  of  the  country  from  the 
dining-room.  “ I am  better  pleased,”  said  his  father, 
that  the  view  is  excluded.  To  see  the  hills,  and  fields, 
and  sea-coast,  and  to  feel  that  you  were  debarred  from  the 
freedom  of  walking  among  them,  were  a worse  affliction 
than  to  be  deprived  altogether  of  the  sight.  It  would 
tantalize  too  much.”  . . . 

On  the  evening  of  the  6th  of  September,  O’Connell  and 
his  fellow-prisoners  were  liberated.  About  ten  days  pre- 
viously his  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Patrick  Fitzpatrick,  of 
Eccles  Street,  had  expressed  to  him  the  expectation  that 
the  law-lords  would  confirm  the  sentence,  but  that  the 
prisoners  would  be  liberated  by  the  exercise  of  the  Royal 
prerogative.  “ You  must,  in  that  event,”  said  Mr.  Fitz- 
patrick, be  prepared  with  instant  securities.  How  large 
is  the  amount  of  bail  required?  ” 

O’Connell  had  forgotten  the  amount,  and  descended  to 
the  Governor’s  office  to  inspect  the  book.  Mr.  Fitzpat- 
rick speedily  followed,  and  found  O’Connell  laughing 
heartily  at  the  personal  description  annexed  to  his  name 
in  the  book : Daniel  O’Connell — complexion  good.” 

The  amount  of  bail  was  £5,000  (|25,000)  personally,  and 
two  securities  at  £2,500  (|12,500)  each.  But  it  is  idle, 
quite  idle  to  talk  of  it,”  said  O’Connell ; there  is  not  the 
least  probability — not  the  smallest  shadow  of  a chance  of 
our  being  set  free.  No,  my  good  friend,  we  shall  suffer 
our  full  term.” 

In  this  conviction  O’Connell  continued  until  the  even- 


WiLLIAM  JOSEPH  O^NEILL  DAUNT. 


815 


ing  of  the  6th.  Two  messengers  from  the  Corn  Exchange 
rushed  simultaneously  into  the  prison  with  the  news, 
vociferating  in  such  noisy  rivalship  that  their  tidings 
were  for  a long  time  unintelligible.  At  length  one  of 
them,  perforce  of  better  wind,  shouted  his  comrade  out  of 
breath,  and  having  reached  the  corridor  leading  to  O’Con- 
nelPs  apartments,  he  continued  to  bellow,  I ’m  first ! 
Where ’s  the  Liberator?  I ^m  first ! 

‘‘What  is  it  all  about?’’  demanded  Mr.  Barrett,  who 
was  calmly  perambulating  the  corridor. 

“ Only  that  you  ’re  free,”  cried  Edmond  O’Hagarty 
(the  messenger).  “I’m  first!  I’m  first!  Hurrah! 
Where’s  the  Liberator?  I’m  first!” 

They  rushed  into  a drawing-room  where  O’Connell  was 
seated  between  two  ladies,  O’llagarty  in  his  noisy  delight 
still  shouting,  “I’m  first!  I’m  first!  You’re  free,  Lib- 
erator! Thanks  be  to  God  for  that  same!  The  judg- 
ment ’s  reversed.” 

“Bah!  not  true;  it  can’t  be  true,”  replied  O’Connell 
coolly. 

“ But  it  is  true.  Liberator.”  And  the  messenger  showed 
him  the  placard  which  had  been  printed  in  London  an- 
nouncing the  fact.  He  examined  it  attentively,  and  said 
to  Fitzpatrick : “ After  all,  this  may  be  true,”  when  doubt 
was  dispelled  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  attorneys 
for  the  defense.  “ On  the  merits,”  were  the  first  words  of 
Mr.  Ford,  who  threw  his  arms  round  O’Connell’s  neck  and 
kissed  him.  O’Connell  wore  his  green  velvet  Mullagh- 
mast  cap,  and  Ford  wore  a broad-brimmed  beaver  hat, 
oblivious  in  his  ecstasy  of  the  presence  of  the  ladies.  “ On 
the  merits,”  he  triumphantly  repeated ; “ no  technical- 
ities at  all — nothing  but  the  merits.” 

The  news  had  now  spread  through  the  prison,  and  the 
other  prisoners  crowded  to  the  drawing-room  to  learn 
their  fate.  There  was  a quiet  sort  of  triumph,  no  bois- 
terous joy  amongst  the  traversers.  In  the  course  of  the 
evening  O’Connell  said  to  my  informant  in  a tone  of  deep 
solemnity:  “Fitzpatrick,  the  hand  of  man  is  not  in  this. 
It  is  the  response  given  by  Providence  to  the  prayers  of 
the  faithful,  steadfast,  pious  people  of  Ireland.” 

It  was  near  twilight  when  O’Connell  left  the  prison  to 
return  to  his  home  in  Merrion  Square.  As  he  walked 


816 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


along  the  streets,  the  people  at  first  gazed  on  him  in  be- 
wildered astonishment.  They  could  scarcely  believe  the 
evidence  of  their  eyes.  Was  O’Connell  indeed  free?  They 
crowded  round  him  to  ascertain  the  fact;  the  crowds  aug- 
mented; and  by  the  time  he  arrived  at  the  western  end  of 
Merrion  Square,  his  friends  were  obliged  to  form  a cordon 
around  him  to  avert  the  inconvenient  pressure  of  the  de- 
lighted multitude.  When  he  placed  his  foot  on  his  own 
hall-door  step,  to  re-enter  the  home  from  which  he  had 
for  three  months  been  iniquitously  exiled,  the  popular 
ecstasy  became  uncontrollable.  Cheer  after  cheer  rose 
and  swelled  upon  the  air.  The  people  gave  vent  to  their 
wild  delight  in  vociferous  acclamations;  every  heart  beat 
high  with  i3ride  and  triumph  at  the  liberation  of  their 
venerated  leader — not  by  ministerial  grace  or  favor,  but 
by  the  strict  and  stern  vindication  of  that  law  which  had 
been  so  nefariously  outraged  in  the  trial  and  conviction. 

O’Connell  appeared  on  the  balcony  and  addressed  the 
people  briefly.  He  exhorted  them  to  bear  their  victory 
with  moderation.  Let  them,  he  said,  demonstrate  their 
fitness  to  rule  themselves  by  the  spirit  of  conciliation  and 
friendliness  with  which  they  should  enjoy  their  triumph. 

On  the  next  day  (Saturday,  the  Tth  of  September)  the 
liberated  patriots  passed  in  procession  through  the  lead- 
ing streets  of  the  metropolis.  It  was  a scene  of  inde- 
scribable excitement.  When  opposite  the  door  of  the  old 
Parliament  House  in  College  Green,  the  cavalcade  halted 
— O’Connell  rose  in  his  triumphal  car,  uncovered  his 
head  and  pointed  with  significant  emphasis  to  the  edifice. 
Then  arose  a mighty  shout  from  the  surrounding  thou- 
sands— again  and  again  did  O’Connell,  looking  proudly 
around  him,  repeat  his  significant  gesture;  again  and  again 
did  the  myriads  who  thronged  the  broad  street  upraise 
their  glad  voices  in  deafening  cheers.  It  was  like  the  roar 
of  the  ocean,  that  proud  shout  of  a nation’s  triumph  and  a 
nation’s  hope. 


WILLIAM  JOSEPH  O’NEILL  DAUNT. 


817 


KING  BAGENAL. 

From  ‘ Eighty-five  Years  of  Irish  History.’ 

Of  manners  elegant,  fascinating,  polished  by  extensive 
intercourse  with  the  great  world,  of  princely  income,  and 
of  boundless  hospitality,  Mr.  Bageual  possessed  all  the 
qualities  and  attributes  calculated  to  procure  him  popu- 
larity with  every  class.  A terrestrial  paradise  was  Dun- 
leckny  for  all  lovers  of  good  wine,  good  horses,  good  dogs, 
and  good  society.  His  stud  was  magnificent,  and  he  had 
a large  number  of  capital  hunters  at  the  service  of  visitors 
who  were  not  provided  with  steeds  of  their  own.  He  de- 
rived great  delight  from  encouraging  the  young  men  who 
frequented  his  house  to  hunt,  drink,  and  solve  points  of 
honor  at  twelve  paces. 

‘‘  Enthroned  at  Dunleckny,  he  gathered  around  him  a 
host  of  spirits  congenial  to  his  own.  He  had  a tender  af- 
fection for  pistols,  a brace  of  which  implements,  loaded, 
were  often  placed  before  him  on  the  dinner  table.  After 
dinner  the  claret  was  produced  in  an  unbroached  cask; 
BagenaFs  practice  was  to  broach  the  cask  with  a bullet 
from  one  of  his  pistols,  whilst  he  kept  the  other  pistol  in 
terrorem  for  any  of  the  convives  who  should  fail  in  doing 
ample  justice  to  the  wine. 

Nothing  could  be  more  impressive  than  the  bland, 
fatherly,  affectionate  air  with  Avhich  the  old  gentleman 
used  to  impart  to  his  junior  guests  the  results  of  his  own 
experience,  and  the  moral  lessons  which  should  regulate 
their  conduct  through  life. 

“ ^ In  truth,  my  young  friends,  it  behooves  a youth  enter- 
ing the  world  to  make  a character  for  himself.  Respect 
will  only  be  accorded  to  character.  A young  man  must 
show  his  proofs.  I am  not  a quarrelsome  person — I never 
was — I hate  your  mere  duelist;  but  experience  of  the 
world  tells  me  there  are  knotty  points  of  which  the  only 
solution  is  the  saw  handle.  Rest  upon  your  pistols,  my 
boys!  Occasions  will  arise  in  which  the  use  of  them  is 
absolutely  indispensable  to  character.  A man,  I repeat, 
must  show  his  proofs — in  this  world  courage  will  never  be 
taken  upon  trust.  I protest  to  Heaven,  my  dear  young 
friends,  I am  advising  you  exactly  as  I should  advise  my 
own  sonF 


818 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


And  having  thus  discharged  his  conscience,  he  would 
look  blandly  around  with  the  most  patriarchal  air  imag- 
inable. 

His  practice  accorded  with  his  precept.  Some  pigs, 
the  property  of  a gentleman  who  had  recently  settled  near 
Dunleckny,  strayed  into  an  enclosure  of  King  BagenaPs, 
and  rooted  up  a flower  knot.  The  incensed  monarch  or- 
dered that  the  porcine  trespassers  should  be  shorn  of  their 
ears  and  tails;  and  he  transmitted  the  several  appendages 
to  the  owner  of  the  swine  with  an  intimation  that  he,  too, 
deserved  to  have  Ins  ears  docked;  and  that  only  he  had  not 
got  a tail,  he  (King  Bagenal)  would  sever  the  caudal 
member  from  his  dorsal  extremity.  ‘ Now,^  quoth  Bagenal, 
^ if  he  ^s  a gentleman,  he  must  burn  powder  after  such  a 
message  as  that.’ 

“ Nor  was  he  disappointed.  A challenge  was  given  by 
the  owner  of  the  pigs.  Bagenal  accepted  it  with  alacrity, 
only  stipulating  that  as  he  was  old  and  feeble,  being  then 
in  his  seventy-ninth  year,  he  should  fight  sitting  in  his 
arm-chair;  and  that  as  his  infirmities  prevented  early 
rising,  the  meeting  should  take  place  in  the  afternoon. 
‘ Time  was,’  said  the  old  man,  with  a sigh,  ‘ that  I would 
have  risen  before  daylight  to  fight  at  sunrise,  but  we  can- 
not do  these  things  at  seventy-eight.  Well,  Heaven’s  will 
be  done.’ 

They  fought  at  twelve  paces.  Bagenal  wounded  his 
antagonist  severe!}";  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat 
was  shattered,  but  he  remained  unhurt;  and  he  ended  the 
day  with  a glorious  carouse,  tapping  the  claret,  we  may 
presume,  as  usual,  by  firing  a pistol  at  the  cask. 

The  traditions  of  Dunleckny  allege  that  when  Bagenal, 
in  the  course  of  his  tour  through  Europe,  visited  the  petty 
court  of  Mecklenburg-Strelitz,  the  Grand  Duke,  charmed 
with  his  magnificence  and  the  reputation  of  his  wealth, 
made  him  an  offer  of  the  hand  of  the  fair  Charlotte,  who, 
being  politely  rejected  by  King  Bagenal,  was  afterwards 
accepted  by  King  George  III.” 

Such  was  the  lord  of  Dunleckny,  and  such  was  many  an 
Irish  squire  of  the  day.  Kecklessness  characterized  the 
time.  And  yet  there  was  a polished  courtesy,  a high-bred 
grace  in  the  manners  of  men  who  imagined  that  to  shoot, 
or  to  be  shot  at,  on  the  sod,”  was  an  indispensable  ingre- 


WILLIAM  JOSEPH  O’NEILL  DAUNT. 


819 


dient  in  the  character  of  a gentleman.  Look  at  Bagenal, 
nearly  fourscore,  seated  at  the  head  of  his  table.  You  ob- 
serve the  refined  urbanity  of  his  manner,  and  the  dignified 
air  which  is  enhanced,  not  impaired,  by  the  weight  of 
years.  You  draw  near  to  participate  in  the  instructions  of 
this  ancient  moralist.  What  a shock — half  ludicrous,  half 
horrible — to  find  that  he  inculcates  the  necessity  of  prac- 
tice with  the  hair-triggers  as  the  grand  primary  virtue 
which  forms  the  gentleman ! 


A FACETIOUS  lEISH  PEEE. 

From  ‘ Eighty-five  Years  of  Irish  History.’ 

Amongst  those  whom  a descent  of  some  half-dozen  gen- 
erations entitled  to  call  themselves  Irish,  the  greater  num- 
ber had  so  habitually  looked  on  politics  as  a game  to  be 
played  for  the  purpose  of  personal  aggrandizement,  that 
they  had  no  conception  of  anything  like  political  principle. 
There  was  a thorough  moral  recklessness  about  them  which 
rendered  them  quite  ready  for  any  act  of  political  despera- 
tion, provided  it  did  not  tend  to  enlarge  the  power  of  the 
people.  Their  personal  habits  necessarily  fostered  their 
recklessness.  Their  profusion  and  extravagance  were 
great ; and  some  of  them — not  a few — resorted  to  modes  of 
raising  the  wind  which  showed  that  they  mingled  few 
scruples  with  their  system  of  financial  pneumatics.  There 
was,  withal,  a strong  dash  of  odd  drollery  in  the  brazen 
shamelessness  of  their  expedients. 

A curious  specimen  of  this  order  of  men  Tvas  Lord 

M y.  His  title  was  the  result  of  some  dexterous  traffic 

in  Parliamentary  votes.  His  manners  were  eminently  fas- 
cinating, and  his  habits  social.  He  had  a favorite  saying 
that  a gentleman  could  never  live  upon  his  rents;  a man 
who  depended  on  his  rents  had  money  only  upon  two  days 
in  the  year,  the  25th  of  March  and  the  29th  of  September. 
He  accordingly  left  no  expedient  untried  to  furnish  him- 
self with  money  every  other  day  too. 

It  chanced  that  when  Lord  Kerry^s  house  in  St.  Ste- 
phen's Green  was  for  sale,  a lady  named  Keating  was  de- 


820 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


sirous  to  purchase  a pew  in  St.  Anne’s  Church  appertain- 
ing to  that  mansion.  Mrs.  Keating  erroneously  took  it 

into  her  head  that  the  pew  belonged  to  Lord  M y;  she 

accordingly  visited  his  lordshij)  to  propose  herself  as  a 
purchaser. 

My  dear  madam,”  said  he,  I have  not  got  any  pew, 
that  I know  of,  in  St.  Anne’s  Church.” 

Oh,  my  lord,  I assure  you  that  you  have ; and  if  3^ou 
have  got  no  objection,  I am  desirous  to  purchase  it.” 

Lord  M y started  no  farther  difficulty.  A large  sum 

was  accordingly  fixed  on,  and  in  order  to  make  her  bar- 
gain as  secure  as  possible,  Mrs.  Keating  got  the  agreement 
of  sale  drawn  out  in  the  most  stringent  form  by  an  at- 
torney. She  paid  the  money  to  Lord  M y,  and  on  the 

following  Sunday  she  marched  up  to  the  pew  to  take  pos- 
session, rustling  in  the  stateliness  of  brocades  and  silks. 
The  beadle  refused  to  let  her  into  the  pew. 

“ Sir,”  said  the  lady,  this  pew  is  mine.” 

Yours,  madam?  ” 

Yes;  I have  bought  it  from  Lord  M y.” 

Madam,  this  is  the  Kerry  pew ; I do  assure  you  Lord 

M y never  had  a pew  in  this  church.” 

Mrs.  Keating  saw  at  once  she  had  been  cheated,  and  on 
the  following  day  she  went  to  his  lordship  to  try  if  she 
could  get  back  her  money. 

My  lord,  I have  come  to  you  to  say  that  the  pew  in 
St.  Anne’s — ” 

My  dear  madam,  I ’ll  sell  you  twenty  more  pews  if  you 
have  any  fancy  for  them.” 

Oh,  my  lord,  you  are  facetious.  I have  come  to  ac- 
quaint you  it  was  all  a mistake;  you  never  had  a pew  in 
that  church.” 

Hah ! so  I think  I told  you  at  first.” 

And  I trust,  my  lord,”  pursued  Mrs.  Keating,  you 
will  refund  me  the  money  I paid  you  for  it.” 

The  money?  Really,  my  dear  madam,  I am  sorry  to 
say  that  it  is  quite  impossible — the  money’s  gone  long 
ago.” 

But — my  lord — your  lordship’s  character — ” 

That ’s  gone  too ! ” said  Lord  M y,  laughing  with 

good-humored  nonchalance, 

I have  already  said  that  this  nobleman’s  financial  opera- 


WILLIAM  JOSEPH  O’NEILL  DAUNT. 


821 


tions  were  systematically  extended  to  every  opportunity 
of  gain  that  could  possibly  be  grasped  at.  He  was  colonel 
of  a militia  regiment;  and,  contrary  to  all  precedent,  he 
regularly  sold  the  commissions  and  pocketed  the  money. 
The  Lord  Lieutenant  resolved  to  call  him  to  an  account 
for  his  malpractices,  and  for  that  purpose  invited  him  to 
dine  at  the  Castle,  where  all  the  other  colonels  of  militia 
regiments  then  in  Dublin  had  also  been  invited  to  meet 
him.  After  dinner  the  Viceroy  stated  that  he  had  heard 
with  great  pain  an  accusation — indeed,  he  could  hardly 
believe  it — but  it  had  been  positively  said  that  the  colonel 
of  a militia  regiment  actually  sold  the  commissions. 

The  company  looked  aghast  at  this  atrocity,  and  the  in- 
nocent colonels  forthwith  began  to  exculpate  themselves* 

I have  never  done  so.^^  I have  never  sold  any.’’  Nor 

I.”  ’ The  disclaimers  were  general.  Lord  M y resolved 

to  put  a bold  face  on  the  matter. 

I always  sell  the  commissions  in  my  regiment,”  said 
he,  with  the  air  of  a man  who  announced  a practice  rather 
meritorious.  All  present  seemed  astonished  at  this  frank 
avowal. 

How  can  you  defend  such  a practice?  ” asked  the  Lord 
Lieutenant. 

<<  Very  easily,  my  lord.  Has  not  your  Excellency  always 
told  us  to  assimilate  our  regiments  as  much  as  possible  to 
the  troops  of  the  Line?  ” 

“ Yes,  undoubtedly.” 

Well,  they  sell  the  commissions  in  the  Line,  and  I 
thought  that  the  best  point  at  which  to  begin  the  assimila- 
tion.” 

It  is  told  of  this  nobleman,  that  when  he  was  dying  he 
was  attended  by  a clergyman,  who  remonstrated  with  him 
on  the  scandalous  exploits  of  his  past  life,  and  strongly 
urged  him  to  repent.  Repent?  ” echoed  the  dying  sinner; 

I don’t  see  what  I have  got  to  repent  of ; I don’t  remem- 
ber that  I ever  denied  myself  anything.” 


THOMAS  OSBORNE  DAVIS. 


(1814—1845.) 

Thomas  Osborne  Davis,  born  in  1814,  was  a native  of  MalloAv,  an 
historic  and  picturesque  town,  pleasantly  situated  on  the  north  bank  of 
the  Munster  Blackwater,  in  the  county  of  Cork.  Through  his  mother 
he  could  trace  some  kinship  with  the  O’Sullivans,  chiefs  of  Berehaven. 

There  was  much  in  the  scenery  of  his  native  place  to  aAvaken  the 
poetic  and  patriotic  feelings  of  the  boy.  The  stern  old  walls  of 
Mallow  Castle  had  Avitnessed  several  sieges  in  the  days  when  the 
Lords  President  of  Munster  held  their  court  within  its  ramparts. 
Not  far  stands  Kilcolman,  where  Edmund  Spenser  penned  ‘ The 
Faerie  Queene,’  and  near  it  is  Newmarket,  where  John  Philpot  Cur- 
ran was  born  and  reared. 

Davis  from  an  early  age  exhibited  a keen  interest  in  the  language, 
the  history,  and  the  antiquities  of  his  country.  He  Avas  educated 
at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  Avhere  he  was  graduated  in  1836  ; and 
tAvo  years  afterAvard  he  Avas  called  to  the  bar.  Later  on  he  joined 
the  Repeal  Association  of  O’Connell,  a step  which  colored  his  whole 
after  life  and  had  influences  far  wider  than  his  personal  fortunes. 
The  Repeal  Association,  powerful  as  it  was  in  some  respects,  was  in 
others  very  feeble.  There  attached  to  it,  in  the  first  place,  the  sus- 
picion of  being  a sectarian  body,  a society  Avhich  identified  national 
Avith  purely  Catholic  interests.  The  autocratic  position  of  O’Connell, 
too,  had  had  the  effect  of  making  the  Association  appear  to  be  merely 
an  arena  in  Avhich  he  performed  as  a star.  The  adhesion  of  Davis 
to  the  body  did  much  to  remove  these  prejudices,  and  the  result  was 
that  the  new  recruit  was  followed  by  several  others  of  perhaps  a 
better  class  than  had  hitherto  joined  O’Connell’s  Association. 

In  1842  The  Nation  newspaper  was  founded  : an  event  destined 
to  bear  most  important  fruits,  literary  and  political,  in  the  history 
of  Ireland.  Mr.  (later  on  Sir)  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  was  the  editor, 
and  Davis  became  one  of  the  chief  contributors.  It  was  in  the  col- 
umns of  this  paper  that  the  greater  part  of  Davis’  poems  appeared, 
and  his  stirring  words  were  among  the  most  potent  agencies  in 
stimulating  the  revolutionary  passions  of  the  people.  ‘*I  re- 
member,’’AA^rote  the  Very  Reverend  Father  O’Burke,  “ with  AA^hat 
startled  enthusiasm  I would  arise  from  reading  Davis’  ‘ Poems  ’ ; 
and  it  Avould  seem  to  me  that  before  my  young  eyes  I saw  the  dash 
of  the  Brigade  at  Fontenoy  ; it  would  seem  to  me  as  if  my  young 
ears  Avere  filled  with  the  shout  that  resounded  at  the  YelloAv  Ford 
and  Benurb — the  war-cry  of  the  Red  Hand — as  the  English  hosts 
were  swept  away,  and,  like  snow  under  the  beams  of  the  rising 
sun,  melted  before  the  Irish  onset.” 

Davis  soon  formed  a party  in  the  Association,  which  aimed  at 
objects  and  contemplated  means  to  which  the  founder  of  the  body 
was  most  vehemently  opposed.  In  the  middle  of  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  advocates  of  physical  force — who  came  to  be  knoAvn  as 
the  Young  Ireland  party — and  O’Connell,  who  believed  in  the  om- 
nipotence of  constitutional  agitation,  Davis  died.  Sept.  16,  1845. 

822 


THOMAS  OSBORNE  DAVIS. 


823 


It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  poignancy  of  regret  with  which 
the  news  of  this  premature  and  sudden  close  to  a career  of  such 
bright  promise  was  received.  Extreme  as  were  the  political  opin- 
ions of  Davis,  they  were  free  from  the  least  suspicion  of  sectarian- 
ism ; and  this,  together  with  the  transparent  purity  of  his  motives 
and  his  splendid  talents,  made  him  admired  by  men  of  the  most 
opposite  principles.  “ Perhaps  the  best  evidence  of  the  potency 
and  the  nobility  of  his  influence,”  says  a writer  in  ‘ A Treasury  of 
Irish  Poetry,’  “was  the  fact  that  this  sense  of  loss  was  overcome  by 
the  recollection  of  the  ideals  he  had  held  up,  and  that  his  memory 
was  honored  by  the  undaunted  pursuance  of  his  work,  and  the 
maintenance  of  the  pure  and  lofty  ardor  with  which  he  wrought.” 

The  great  heart  of  O’Connell  was  deeply  stirred  when  he  heard 
of  his  young  opponent’s  death.  From  Derrynane  his  habit  was  to 
send  a long  weekly  letter,  to  be  read  at  the  meeting  of  the  Associ- 
ation. This  week  his  letter  was  very  short — nothing  but  a burst  of 
lamentation.  “ As  I stand  alone  in  the  solitude  of  my  mountains 
many  a tear  shall  I shed  in  memory  of  the  noble  youth.  Oh  ! how 
vain  are  words  or  tears  when  such  a national  calamity  afflicts  the 
country.  Put  me  down  among  the  foremost  contributors  to  what- 
ever monument  or  tribute  to  his  memory  be  voted  by  the  National 
Association.  Never  did  they  perform  a more  imperative,  or,  alas  ! 
so  sad  a duty.  I can  write  no  more — my  tears  blind  me.” 

“ It  was  in  his  poetry,”  says  a writer  in  ‘A  Treasury  of  Irish 
Poetry,’  “ that  he  most  intimately  revealed  himself.  And  though 
Thomas  Davis  was  extraordinarily  fertile  in  ideas  and  indefatigable 
in  methodic  industry,  the  best  thing  he  gave  to  the  Irish  people 
was  not  an  idea  or  an  achievement  of  any  sort,  but  simply  the 
gift  of  himself.  He  was  the  ideal  Irishman.  North  and  south, 
east  and  west,  the  finest  qualities  of  the  population  that  inhabit 
the  island  seemed  to  be  combined  in  him,  developed  to  their  high- 
est power,  and  colored  deeply  with  whatever  it  is  in  character  and 
temperament  that  makes  the  Irish  one  of  the  most  separate  of 
races.  The  nation  saw  itself  transfigured  in  him,  and  saw  the 
dreams  nourished  by  its  long  memories  and  ancestral  pride  coming 
true.  Hence  the  intense  personal  devotion  felt  toward  Davis  by 
the  ardent  and  thoughtful  young  men  who  were  associated  with 
him,  and  the  sense  of  irreparable  loss  caused  by  his  early  death. 
He  stood  for  Ireland — for  all  Ireland — as  no  other  man  did,  and  it 
was  hardly  possible  to  distinguish  the  cause  from  his  personality.” 

FONTENOY.i 

Thrice  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy  the  English  column  failed, 
And  twice  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine  the  Dutch  in  vain  as- 
sailed ; 

For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 

1 The  battle  of  Fontenoy,  fought  in  Flanders  in  1745  between  the  French 
and  the  Allies — English,  Dutch,  and  Austrians — in  which  the  Allies  were 
worsted.  The  Irish  Brigade  fought  by  the  side  of  the  French,  and  won 
great  renown  by  their  splendid  conduct  in  the  field. 


824 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks  and  Dutch  aux- 
iliary. 

As  vainly,  through  De  Band’s  wood,  the  British  soldiers  burst. 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished  and  dis- 
persed. 

The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye. 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to  try. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride! 

And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops,  like  clouds  at  even- 
tide. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 

Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank.  Lord  Hay  is  at  their 
head ; 

Steady  they  step  a-down  the  slope — steady  they  climb  the 
hill; 

Steady  they  load — steady  they  fire,  moving  right  onward  still, 
Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a furnace  blast. 
Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets  shower- 
ing fast; 

And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose,  and  kept  their  course. 
With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked  at  hostile  force: 
Past  Fontenoy,  past  Fontenoy,  Tvhile  thinner  grow  their 
ranks — 

They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland’s  ocean 
banks. 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush 
round ; 

As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons  strew  the  ground ; 
Bomb  shell,  and  grape,  and  round-shot  tore,  still  on  they 
marched  and  fired — 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 

Push  on  my  household  cavalry ! ” King  Louis  madly  cried : 
To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock — not  unavenged  they 
died. 

On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod — King  Louis  turns  his 
rein : 

Not  yet,  my  liege,”  Saxe  interposed,  the  Irish  troops  re- 
main ; ” 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a Waterloo, 

Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement,  and  true. 

Lord  Clare,”  he  said,  “ you  have  your  wish,  there  are  your 
Saxon  foes ! ” 

The  marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously  he  goes ! 


THOMAS  OSBORNE  DAVIS. 


825 


How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who  ’re  wont  to  be  so 

gay, 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to- 
day— 

The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  ’twas  writ  could 
dry. 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women’s 
parting  cry. 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  over- 
thrown,— 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere. 

Rushed  on  to  fight  a nobler  band  than  these  proud  exiles  were. 


O’Brien’s  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  commands. 
Fix  bay’nets  ” — charge,” — Like  mountain  storm,  rush  on 
these  fiery  bands! 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 

Yet,  must’ring  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a gallant 
show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  battle- 
wind — 

Their  bayonets  the  breakers’  foam;  like  rocks,  the  men  be- 
hind! 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when,  through  the  surging 
smoke. 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish 
broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza ! 

Revenge ! remember  Limerick ! dash  down  the  Sacsanach ! ” 


Like  lions  leaping  at  a fold,  when  mad  with  hunger’s  pang. 
Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang: 
Bright  was  their  steel,  ’t  is  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled 
with  gore; 

Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  files,  and  trampled  flags 
they  tore; 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused,  rallied, 
staggered,  fled — 

The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead. 
Across  the  plain  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous  wrack. 
While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun. 

With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the  field  is  fought  and 
won ! 


82G 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


OH!  THE  MARRIAGE. 

Oh ! the  marriage,  the  marriage, 

With  love  and  mo  hhuachaill  ^ for  me, 

The  ladies  that  ride  in  a carriage 
Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me; 

For  Eoghan  is  straight  as  a tower. 

And  tender  and  loving  and  true. 

He  told  me  more  love  in  an  hour 
Than  the  squires  of  the  county  could  do« 
Then,  Oh!  the  marriage,  &c. 

His  hair  is  a shower  of  soft  gold. 

His  eye  is  as  clear  as  the  day. 

His  conscience  and  vote  were  unsold 
When  others  were  carried  away; 

His  word  is  as  good  as  an  oath. 

And  freely ’t  was  given  to  me ; 

Oh ! sure ’t  will  be  happy  for  both 
The  day  of  our  marriage  to  see. 

Then,  Oh!  the  marriage,  &c. 

His  kinsmen  are  honest  and  kind. 

The  neighbors  think  ^nucii  of  his  skill, 

And  Eoghan  ^s  the  lad  to  my  mind. 

Though  he  owns  neither  castle  nor  mill. 

But  he  has  a tilloch  of  land, 

A horse,  and  a stocking  of  coin, 

A foot  for  the  dance,  and  a hand 
In  the  cause  of  his  country  to  join. 

Then,  Oh!  the  marriage,  &c. 

We  meet  in  the  market  and  fair — 

We  meet  in  the  morning  and  night — 

He  sits  on  the  half  of  my  chair. 

And  my  people  are  wild  with  delight. 

Yet  I long  through  the  winter  to  skim. 

Though  Eoghan  longs  more  I can  see. 
When  I will  be  married  to  him. 

And  he  will  be  married  to  me. 

Then,  Oh!  the  marriage,  the  marriage. 
With  love  and  mo  hhuacJiaill  for  me. 
The  ladies  that  ride  in  a carriage 
Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me. 

1 Mo  hhuachaill,  ma  bouchal,  my  boy. 


THOMAS  OSBORNE  DAVIS. 


827 


A NATION  ONCE  AGAIN. 

When  boyhood’s  fire  was  in  my  blood, 

1 read  of  ancient  freemen, 

For  Greece  and  Rome  who  bravely  stood, 
Three  Hundred  men  and  Three  men.^ 

And  then  I prayed  I yet  might  see 
Our  fetters  rent  in  twain. 

And  Ireland,  long  a province,  be 
A Nation  once  again. 

And,  from  that  time,  through  wildest  woe, 
That  hope  has  shone,  a far  light ; 

Nor  could  love’s  brightest  summer  glow 
Outshine  that  solemn  starlight: 

It  seemed  to  watch  above  my  head 
In  forum,  field,  and  fane; 

Its  angel  voice  sang  round  my  bed, 

A Nation  once  again.” 

It  whispered,  too,  that  freedom’s  ark 
And  service  high  and  holy. 

Would  be  profaned  by  feelings  dark. 

And  passions  vain  or  lowly : 

For  freedom  comes  from  God’s  right  hand. 
And  needs  a godly  train ; 

And  righteous  men  must  make  our  land 
A Nation  once  again.” 

So,  as  I grew  from  boy  to  man, 

I bent  me  to  that  bidding — 

My  spirit  of  each  selfish  plan 
And  cruel  jjassion  ridding; 

For,  thus  I hoped  some  day  to  aid — 

Oh ! can  such  hope  be  vain  ? 

When  my  dear  country  shall  be  made 
A Nation  once  again. 


MY  GRAVE. 

Shall  they  bury  me  in  the  deep. 

Where  wind-forgetting  waters  sleep? 

Shall  they  dig  a grave  for  me. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree? 

1 The  Three  Hundred  Greeks  who  died  at  Thermopyloe,  and  the  Hire© 
Romans  who  kept  the  Sublician  Bridge. — Davis. 


828 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Or  on  the  wild  heath, 

Where  the  wilder  breath 
Of  the  storm  doth  blow? 

Oh,  no!  oh,  no! 

Shall  they  bury  me  in  the  palace  tombs, 

Or  under  the  shade  of  cathedral  domes? 

Sweet  ’twere  to  lie  on  Italy’s  shore; 

Yet  not  there — nor  in  Greece,  though  I love  it  more. 
In  the  wolf  or  the  vulture  my  grave  shall  I find? 
Shall  my  ashes  career  on  the  world-seeing  wind? 
Shall  they  fling  my  corpse  in  the  battle  mound, 
Where  coffinless  thousands  lie  under  the  ground? 
Just  as  they  fall  they  are  buried  so — 

Oh,  no!  oh,  no! 

No!  on  an  Irish  green  hillside. 

On  an  opening  lawn — but  not  too  wide ; 

For  I love  the  drip  of  the  wetted  trees — 

I love  not  the  gales,  but  a gentle  breeze. 

To  freshen  the  turf ; — put  no  tombstone  there, 

But  green  sods  decked  with  daisies  fair; 

Nor  sods  too  deep,  but  so  that  the  dew 
The  matted  grass-roots  may  trickle  through. 

Be  my  epitaph  writ  on  my  country’s  mind : 

He  served  his  country,  and  loved  his  kind.’^ 

Oh ! ’t  were  merry  unto  the  grave  to  go, 

If  one  were  sure  to  be  buried  so. 


THE  WEST’S  ASLEEP. 

When  all  beside  a vigil  keep, 

The  West ’s  asleep,  the  West ’s  asleep. 
Alas!  and  well  may  Erin  weep. 

When  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 
There  lake  and  plain  smile  fair  and  free, 
’Mid  rocks — their  guardian  chivalry. 
Sing!  oh!  let  me  learn  liberty 
From  crashing  wind  and  lashing  sea. 

That  chainless  wave  and  lovely  land 
Freedom  and  Nationhood  demand; 

Be  sure  the  great  God  never  planned 


TEOMA^  OSBORNE  DAVIS. 


829 


For  slumbering  slaves  a home  so  grand. 
And  long  a brave  and  haughty  race 
Honored  and  sentineled  the  place — 

Sing,  oh ! not  even  their  sons’  disgrace 
Can  quite  destroy  their  glory’s  trace. 

For  often,  in  O’Connor’s  van. 

To  triumph  dashed  each  Connaught  clan, 
And  fleet  as  deer  the  Normans  ran 
Through  Curlieu’s  Pass  and  Ardrahan, 
And  later  times  saw  deeds  as  brave; 

And  glory  guards  Clanricarde’s  grave — 
Sing,  oh!  they  died  their  land  to  save. 

At  Aughrim’s  slopes  and  Shannon’s  wave. 

And  if,  when  all  a vigil  keep, 

The  West ’s  asleep,  the  West ’s  asleep — 
Alas!  and  well  may  Erin  weep. 

That  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 

But  hark!  some  voice  like  thunder  spake: 
The  West ’s  awake ! the  West ’s  awake ! ” 
Sing,  oh ! hurrah ! let  England  quake ; 
iWe  ’ll  watch  till  death  for  Erin’s  sake. 


THE  GIEL  .OF  DUNBWY. 

T is  pretty  to  see  the  girl  of  Dunbwy 
Stepping  the  mountain  statelily — 

Though  ragged  her  gown  and  naked  her  feet, 

No  lady  in  Ireland  to  match  her  is  meet. 

Poor  is  her  diet,  and  hardly  she  lies — 

Yet  a monarch  might  kneel  for  a glance  of  her  eyes ; 

The  child  of  a peasant — yet  England’s  proud  Queen 
Has  less  rank  in  her  heart  and  less  grace  in  her  mien. 

Her  brow  ’neath  her  raven  hair  gleams,  just  as  if 
A breaker  spread  white  ’neath  a shadowy  cliff — 

And  love  and  devotion  and  energy  speak 

From  her  beauty-proud  eye  and  her  passion-pale  cheek. 

But,  pale  as  her  cheek  is,  there ’s  fruit  on  her  lip. 

And  her  teeth  flash  as  white  as  the  crescent  moon’s  tip, 
And  her  form  and  her  step,  like  the  red-deer’s,  go  past — 
As  lightsome,  as  lovely,  as  haughty,  as  fast. 


830 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


I saw  her  but  once,  and  T looked  in  her  eve, 

And  she  knew  that  I worshiped  in  passing  her  by. 

The  saint  of  the  wayside — she  granted  my  prayer. 
Though  we  spoke  not  a word ; for  her  mother  was  there, 

I never  can  think  upon  Bantry’s  bright  hills, 

But  her  image  starts  up,  and  my  longing  eye  fills; 

And  I whisper  her  softly : Again,  love,  we  ’ll  meet! 

And  I ’ll  lie  in  your  bosom,  and  live  at  your  feet.” 


THE  WELCOME. 

Come  in  thQ  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 

Come  when  you  ’re  looked  for,  or  come  without  warning. 
Kisses  and  welcome  you  ’ll  find  here  before  you. 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I ’ll  adore  you. 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted. 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted. 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever. 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  True  lovers,  don’t  sever ! ” 

I ’ll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear,  if  you  choose  them : 
Or,  after  you  ’ve  kissed  them,  they  ’ll  lie  on  my  bosom. 

I ’ll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you ; 

I’ll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a tale  that  won’t  tire  you. 

O your  step ’s  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vexed  farmer. 
Or  saber  and  shield  to  a knight  without  armor; 

I ’ll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me. 
Then,  wandering,  I ’ll  wish  you,  in  silence,  to  love  me. 

We’ll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie; 
We’ll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the  fairy; 

We  ’ll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we  ’ll  list  to  the  river. 

Till  you  ’ll  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give  her. 
O she  ’ll  whisper  you,  Love  as  unchangeably  beaming. 
And  trust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully  streaming. 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity’s  river.” 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning. 

Come  when  you  ’re  looked  for,  or  come  without  warning, 
Kisses  and  welcome  you  ’ll  find  here  before  you. 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I ’ll  adore  you. 


THOMAS  OSBORNE  DAVIS. 


831 


Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted, 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted, 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  True  lovers,  don’t  sever ! ” 


MY  LAND. 

She  is  a rich  and  rare  land; 

O she ’s  a fresh  and  fair  land ; 

She  is  a dear  and  rare  land — 

This  native  land  of  mine. 

No  men  than  hers  are  braver — 
Her  women’s  hearts  ne’er  waver; 

I ’d  freely  die  to  save  her. 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

She ’s  not  a dull  or  cold  land ; 

No!  she ’s  a warm  and  bold  land; 
O she ’s  a true  and  old  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

Could  beauty  ever  guard  her, 

And  virtue  still  reward  her. 

No  foe  would  cross  her  border — • 
No  friend  within  it  pine! 

O she ’s  a fresh  and  fair  land, 

O she ’s  a true  and  rare  land ! 

Yes,  she  ’s  a rare  and  fair  land — ’ 
This  native  land  of  mine. 


MICHAEL  DAVITT. 

(1846  ) 

Michael  Davitt  was  born  in  Ireland,  March  25,  1846.  He  was  the 
son  of  the  late  Martin  Davitt  of  Straide,  County  Mayo,  and  Scran- 
ton, Pa.  ; his  mother  was  Mary,  the  daughter  of  John  Yore,  St. 
Joseph,  Mich.  He  with  his  parents  was  evicted  in  1852  ; he  began 
work  in  a Lancashire  cotton  mill  in  1856,  losing  his  right  arm  by 
machinery  in  1857.  He  was  employed  as  a newsboy,  printer’s 
“devil,”  and  assistant  letter-carrier  successively.  He  joined  the 
Fenian  Brotherhood  in  1865.  He  was  arrested  and  tried  in  London 
for  treason-felony  in  1870,  and  sentenced  to  fifteen  years  penal 
servitude.  He  was  released  on  “ ticket-of-leave  ” in  1877;  and  with 
the  late  Mr.  Parnell  and  others  founded  the  Irish  Land  League  in 
1879.  He  was  arrested  on  the  charge  of  making  a seditious  speech 
the  same  year,  but  prosecution  was  abandoned. 

He  came  to  the  United  States  to  organize  an  auxiliary  Land 
League  organization  in  1880.  He  was  arrested  shortly  after  his 
return  in  1881,  and  sent  back  to  penal  servitude.  He  was  released 
May  6,  1882  ; arrested  in  1883,  and  tried  under  the  law  of  King 
Edward  HI.  for  seditious  speech  and  imprisoned  for  three  months. 

He  was  included  in  the  “ Parnellism  and  Crime”  allegations,  and 
spoke  for  five  days  in  defense  of  the  Land  League  before  The 
Times  Parnell  Commission.  He  was  first  elected  to  Parliament  for 
the  county  of  Meath,  while  a prisoner  in  Portland  Convict  Prison, 
in  1882,  but  was  disqualified  by  special  vote  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons on  account  of  non-expiry  of  sentence  for  treason-felony.  He 
unsuccessfully  contested  Waterford  City  in  1891.  He  was  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament  for  North  Meath  in  1892,  and  was  unseated  on 
petition.  He  was  returned  unopposed  for  Northeast  Cork  in  the 
same  year,  and  resigned  in  1893,  owing  to  bankruptcy  proceedings 
arising  out  of  the  North  Meath  election  petition.  He  was  returned 
unopposed  for  East  Kerry  and  South  Mayo  in  1895,  while  in  Aus- 
tralia, and  resigned  in  1899. 

He  traveled  in  the  United  States,  Canada,  Australia,  Egypt,  Pales- 
tine, France,  Italy,  Switzerland,  and  in  South  Africa. 

His  publications  are  ‘Leaves  from  a Prison  Diary,’  1884;  ‘De- 
fense of  the  Land  League,’  1891  ; ‘ Life  and  Progress  in  Australia,’ 
1898  ; ‘ The  Boer  Fight  for  Freedom,’  1902  ; ‘ The  Fall  of  Feudalism 
in  Ireland,’  1904. 

HOW  THE  ANGLO-IRISH  PROBLEM  COULD  BE 

SOLVED. 

From  ‘ Leaves  from  a Prison  Diary.’ 

The  question  is  frequently  asked,  What  will  satisfy 
the  Irish  people?  And  the  answer  is  as  frequently  volun- 

832 


MICHAEL  DAVITT. 


833 


teered,  Nothing.  Nothing  will  satisfy  them  but  total 
separation — and  that  they  ’won’t  get.”  It  is  an  illogical 
way  of  answering  such  a question,  but  pardonable  in  an 
Englishman ; and  the  impatience  which  it  manifests  is  also 
strikingly  characteristic.  Your  ordinary  Englishman  en- 
tertains the  pretty  conceit  that  English  rule  is  of  such  a 
beneficent  character  that  any  people  who  do  not  tamely 
submit  to  it  are  to  be  pitied  and — dragooned.  While  in 
particular,  the  Irish  people,  for  their  obstinacy  in  refusing 
to  see  any  virtue  in  English  rule  in  Ireland,  must  be 
clearly  made  to  understand,”  and  must  be  told  once  for 
all,”  that  England  will  maintain  her  hold  upon  Ireland  at 
all  costs. 

All  this  talk  is  indulged*  in  really  for  the  sake  of  con- 
cealing the  chagrin  which  England  experiences  in  conse- 
quence of  the  fact,  revealed  in  recent  years,  that  the  people 
of  Ireland  have  discovered  how  to  make  it  more  difficult 
for  England  to  rule  Ireland,  than  to  govern  all  the  rest  of 
her  vast  empire  put  together.  English  statesmen,  even 
now,  are  devising  a middle  course  between  things  as  they 
are,  and  total  separation.  They  are  casting  about  for  a 
scheme  which  will  combine  the  characteristics  of  modern 
statesmanship — a scheme,  for  example,  which  will  involve 
as  small  a concession  as  possible  to  the  demand  of  the 
people  concerned,  and  have  a fair  chance  of  passing  the 
House  of  Lords.  Eminent  statesmen  have  more  than  once 
challenged  Irish  public  men  to  say  what  they  want,  but 
the  required  answer  has  not  been  forthcoming.  There 
have  been  answers,  but  they  have  been  too  reasonable. 
English  statesmen  have  not  been  able  to  offer  upon  them 
the  comment,  We  told  you  so,  the  thing  demanded  is 
utterly  out  of  the  range  of  practical  politics,  and,  in  point 
of  fact,  is  absolutely  out  of  the  question.”  The  answer 
really  required  is  such  a one  as  English  statesmen  can 
meet  with  a non  possumus.  And  for  this  reason,  English 
statesmen,  I repeat,  know  that  a substantial  concession 
will  have  to  be  made  to  the  genius  of  Irish  nationality 
within  the  next  few  years.  The  demand  for  it  is  too 
strong  to  be  resisted;  for  the  Irish  race  have  to  be  dealt 
with  now. 

If  at  home  on  Irish  soil  the  people  can  make  the  ruling 

poAvers  uneasy  ” to  such  an  extent  as  I have  indicated,  in 

3— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


834 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Westminster  their  representatives  can  clog  the  wheels  of 
legislation  and  endanger  the  very  existence  of  government 
by  parliamentary  methods;  while  abroad,  in  Great  Brit- 
ain, America,  Australia,  Canada,  the  exiled  Irish  have 
discovered  how  to  operate  on  the  flank,  so  to  speak,  by 
elevating  the  Irish  question  into  the  position  of  a national 
or  colonial  issue.  Further,  EnglancFs  guilt  towards  Ire- 
land is  known  and  commented  on  all  over  the  world.  Fur- 
ther still,  the  real  people  of  England — the  working  men  of 
England — have  of  late  been  asking  for  the  reasons  why 
Ireland  should  be  perpetually  discontented,  and  the  an- 
swers they  have  received,  to  the  credit  of  their  common 
sense,  be  it  said,  do  not  appear  to  have  satisfied  them.  Re- 
spectable England  is  very  angry;  and,  to  conceal  their 
annoyance  at  the  inevitable,  and  to  pave  the  way  for  a 
concession,  English  statesmen  ask  the  question  of  Irish 
public  men — “ What  do  you  want?  ’’  and  require  an 
answer  to  which  they  may  return  an  emphatic  impossi- 
ble.^’ But  this  is  only  diplomacy.  They  only  desire  us  to 
say  how  much  we  want,  in  order  to  say  in  reply  how  little 
they  will  give.  They  ask  us  to  formulate  our  demand,” 
that  they,  in  formulating  their  concession,  may  assure 
their  opponents  of  its  comparative  innocence.  Responsi- 
ble Irish  public  men  have  declined  to  fall  into  the  trap. 
And  they  have  acted  very  wisely.  For  why  should  Irish 
public  men  show  their  hand  rather  than  English  Prime 
Ministers? 

Apart  altogether  from  considerations  of  this  character, 
however,  there  are  others  of  a distinctly  Irish  nature  which 
the  leaders  of  the  National  movement  in  Ireland  have  to 
take  into  account.  The  varying  shades  of  National  senti- 
ment may  not  be  ignored.  Let  us  therefore  analyze  the 
degrees  of  intensity  of  Irish  Nationalist  aspirations. 

We  have  first,  the  Extremists,  those  who  believe  that  to- 
tal separation  from  England  is  the  only  thing  that  would 
satisfy  Irish  genius  or  develop  it  properly.  These  include 
the  most  self-sacrificing  Irishmen.  They  represent,  in 
their  aspirations  for  Irish  liberty,  those  who  have  made 
the  most  illustrious  names  in  Ireland’s  history.  They  in- 
clude many  cultured  men,  especially  among  the  expatri- 
ated portion  of  the  race,  but  their  main  strength  is  in  the 
working  classes.  Patriotism  is  purer  among  the  Indus- 


MICHAEL  DAVITT. 


835 


trial  order  because  less  modified  by  mercenary  motives  and 
less  liable  to  corrupting  influences.  But  the  Extremists 
or  Separatists  are  divided  among  themselves  upon  the 
question  of  method.  There  are  Separatists  who  advocate 
physical  force,  believing  moral  force,  that  is,  constitution- 
al means,  ineffectual  and  demoralizing.  This  section  in- 
cludes men  who  have  never  tried  moral  force  and  who 
believe  solely  either  in  honorable  warfare  or  dyna- 
mite.^^  It  also  includes  those  who  have  tried  moral  force 
and  given  it  up  in  despair.  Then  there  are  the  Separa- 
tists who,  with  the  experiences  of  ^48  and  ^67  before  their 
minds,  rely  upon  constitutional  action  alone. 

Next  in  importance  to  the  Extremists  come  the  Home 
Rulers,  or  Federalists,  who  may  be  divided  into  those  who 
disbelieve  in  the  possibility  of  Separation  and  those  who 
do  not  see  its  necessity.  This  section  of  the  National 
party  includes  some  of  the  ablest  and  most  earnest  men  in 
Ireland.  Their  methods,  I need  hardly  say,  are  strictly 
constitutional. 

No  Irish  leader  can  afford  to  ignore  either  of  these  two 
principal  phases  of  Irish  National  sentiment.  Were  such 
a man  to  commit  hims^elf  to  a definite  scheme,  at  the  mere 
invitation  of  an  English  Minister,  he  would  run  the  risk 
of  alienating  that  section  of  his  supporters  whose  views 
were  not  represented  in  his  proposals.  It  is  an  obvious 
remark  that  such  a contingency  would  not  be  unwelcome 
to  English  statesmen.  From  what  I have  just  said,  it  will 
be  readily  perceived  how  difficult  is  the  task  to  which 
Irish  popular  leaders  are  asked  to  address  themselves. 

Nevertheless,  I shall  venture  to  outline  a scheme  of  local 
and  National  self-government  which,  I believe,  would  com- 
mand the  support  of  the  majority  of  the  Irish  people  at 
home  and  abroad,  and  which  would  probably  receive  a fair 
trial  at  the  hands  of  the  Extremists,  though  its  operation 
would  undoubtedly  be  watched  with  a jealous  eye. 

In  the  first  place,  there  should  be  established  in  Ireland 
a system  of  county  government,  by  means  of  Elective 
Boards,  to  take  the  place  of  the  existing  unrepresentative 
and  practically  irresponsible  Grand  Jury  system.  The 
functions  of  such  Boards  should  be  more  comprehensive 
than  those  exercised  by  the  Grand  Juries.  For  example, 
in  addition  to  the  duty  of  administering  purely  county 


836 


IRI^H  LITERATURE. 


business,  these  Boards  should  be  permitted  to  initiate 
measures  of  general  application;  such  as  schemes  of  arte- 
rial drainage,  tramways,  railways,  canals,  docks,  harbors, 
and  similar  enterprises,  which  would  be  of  more  than  local 
importance  and  character.  Such  schemes,  after  being 
fully  discussed  by  these  elective  bodies,  would  be  submitted 
to  the  National  Assembly  to  be  subsequently  described. 
Then  the  County  Boards  should  control  the  police  within 
the  county,  and  appoint  the  magistrates,  and  be  entirely 
responsible  for  the  preservation  of  law  and  order. 

Further,  should  the  land  problem  be  justly  and  satis- 
factorily solved  on  the  lines  of  national  proprietary,  the 
duty  of  assessing  and  collecting  the  land-tax  would  nat- 
urally devolve  upon  the  County  Boards,  which,  deducting 
what  was  necessary  for  the  expenses  of  county  government, 
would  remit  the  balance  to  the  National  Exchequer.  In 
fact  the  object  of  such  a system  should  be  to  constitute 
each  county,  as  far  as  practicable,  a self-governing  com- 
munity. 

Manifestly  any  system  of  local  self-government  for  Ire- 
land involves  a corresponding  one  of  National  self-gov- 
ernment as  its  natural  and  inevitable  complement.  To 
extend  the  principle  of  local  self-government  at  all  in 
Ireland,  without  radically  changing  the  system  of  Castle 
rule,  would  only  have  the  effect  of  increasing  the  fric- 
tion already  existing  between  the  people  and  their  rulers. 
Hence,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  legislation  for  Na- 
tional self-government  should  go  hand  in  hand  with  any 
scheme  for  the  creation  of  Elective  County  Boards.  I am 
well  aware  that  the  hope  is  indulged,  in  some  quarters, 
that  the  inclusion  of  Ireland  in  a general  measure  of 
county  government,  with  the  sop  of  an  Irish  Parliamen- 
tary Grand  Committee,  thrown  in,  will  suffice  to  choke  off 
the  demand  for  Irish  legislative  independence ; but  English 
statesmen  need  not  delude  themselves  with  the  idea  that 
any  such  Westminster  expedient  will  satisfy  the  genius  of 
Irish  Nationality. 

There  could  be  established  in  Dublin  a National  Assem- 
bly, composed  of  elected  members  from  the  constituencies 
of  Ireland,  who  should  proceed  to  the  administration  of  all 
Irish  affairs,  in  the  manner  which  obtains  in  Colonial  par- 
liaments, excepting  the  substitution  of  one  for  two  Cham- 


MICHAEL  DAVITT. 


837 


bers,  here  proposed.  That  is  to  saj,  the  Representatives  of 
the  Crown  in  Ireland  would  call  upon  some  member  of  the 
National  Assembly  to  form  a government,  the  different 
members  of  which  should  be  constituted  the  heads  of  the 
various  Boards,  which  at  present  are  practically  irrespon- 
sible bureaucracies ; but  which,  under  the  system  here  pro- 
posed, would  become  departments  of  a popular  govern- 
ment, and  open  to  the  supervision  of  the  people  through 
the  National  Assembly.  Such  a government,  subject  to 
the  control  of  the  governed  through  their  elected  represen- 
tatives, would  be  the  practical  solution  of  the  Anglo-Irish 
difficulty.  It  would  be  but  the  common  definition  of  con- 
stitutional rule  carried  into  practice.  It  would,  as  already 
remarked,  be  the  application  to  misgoverned  and  unfor- 
tunate Ireland  of  a constitution  kindred  to  that  which 
British  statesmanship  has  long  since  granted,  wisely  and 
well,  to  a consequently  peaceful  and  contented  Canada. 

Certainly  if  a similar  act  of  political  justice  and  sound 
policy  does  not  solve  the  Irish  difficulty,  nothing  less  will. 
What  possible  danger  could  England  run  from  such  an 
application  of  constitutional  rule  to  a country  much  near- 
er to  the  center  of  Imperial  power  than  Canada?  But 
what  a beneficent  change  for  Ireland — nay,  what  a relief 
to  England  herself — would  be  involved  in  such  an  act  of 
simple  political  justice! 


DESPAIR  AND  HOPE  IN  PRISON. 

From  ‘ Leaves  from  a Prison  Diary.’ 

As  it  seldom  happens  that  even  the  worst  of  criminals  is 
found  to  be  all  crime,  neither  is  an  association  of  one  thou- 
sand of  convicts  all  repulsive  moral  deformity.  Imprison- 
ment, like  many  other  unfortunate  occurrences  in  the  life 
of  those  who  are  born  under  an  unlucky  star,  has  what,  for 
want  of  a more  accurate  expression,  I shall  term  its  bright 
side  also,  inasmuch  as  its  life  in  some  very  remote  respects 
approaches  to  that  of  the  less  criminal — because  uncon- 
victed— outside  world. 

All  the  talk  of  a convict  prison  is  not  of  murder,  theft. 


838 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


and  indecency,  nor  is  misery  and  unhappiness  always  pres- 
ent among  those  who  may  be  supposed  to  be  the  exclusive 
victims  of  grim-visaged  Despair.^^  Therefore  is  there  that 
I may  call  a negative  silver  lining  to  even  the  dark  cloud  of 
penal  existence.  It  is  a most  singular  thing  that  I have 
met  very  few  individuals  in  prison  who  gave  evidence,  in 
appearance  or  talk,  of  being  truly  miserable,  no  matter 
what  the  length  of  their  sentence,  amount  of  extra  punish- 
ment, or  contrast  between  their  previous  and  their  convict 
life,  may  have  been. 

It  is  true  the  deepest  sorrow  and  most  acute  pains  of  life 
are  often  hid  from  the  mockery  of  human  pity  away  in  the 
recesses  of  the  sufferer’s  breast;  and  that  therefore  the 
smiling  face  and  cheerful  conversation  are  not  to  be  relied 
upon  as  sure  indications  of  a contented  or  happy  ex- 
istence. Yet  a constant  and  familiar  observation  of  men 
of  all  ages,  possessing  the  strongest  of  human  passions, 
while  being  subject  to  disciplinary  restraints  that  have 
no  parallel  in  the  daily  annoyance  or  troubles  of  outside 
life,  would  be  almost  certain  to  detect  any  tendency  to- 
wards despair  or  severe  heart-suffering  on  the  part  of  men 
who  should  succumb  to  their  fate  or  surroundings.  It  is 
also  certain  that  numbers  of  prisoners  having  comforta- 
ble homes  in  the  outer  world  must  often  indulge  in  sad 
regrets  for  what  has  lost  them  their  enjoyment,  and  allow 
their  minds  to  dwell  on  the  painful  contrast  between  the, 
perhaps,  happy  influence  and  remembrance  of  the  one, 
and  the  cheerless  and  weary  aspect  of  the  other  mode  of 
life. 

But  these  feelings  are  seldom  or  never  exhibited  in  the 
general  behavior  or  talk  of  four-fifths  of  the  inmates  of  a 
convict  prison;  and  happy,  indeed,  is  it  for  all  concerned 
in  their  custody  that  it  is  so;  as  such  a mass  of  bridled 
passions,  if  maddened  by  ever-present  thoughts  of  family, 
home,  and  former  pleasures  (while  mind  and  body  are 
made  conscious  every  hour  in  every  day  of  the  terrible 
penalties  which  crime  has  purchased),  would  become  as 
unmanageable  and  dangerously  restless  as  a thousand 
caged  hyenas. 

it  is  only  when  these  possible  feelings  overcome  the  re- 
sisting influence  of  Hope  and  Patience — the  bright  and 
ever-present  guardian  angels  of  the  imprisoned — nowhere 


MICHAEL  DAVITT, 


839 


SO  needed,  and  thanks  to  a beneficent  Providence,  nowhere 
so  constantly  present  and  powerful,  as  in  a prison — that 
the  heart  fails  in  presence  of  seemingly  unbearable  woe, 
inducing  mental  aberration  and  finally  insanity  in  the 
unfortunate  victims.  Such  cases,  are,  however,  not  fre- 
quent, while  the  instances  of  prisoners  buoying  up  their 
existence  under  the  weight  of  life  sentences  with  the  hope 
of  something  being  done  for  them  some  time,  through  the 
agency  of  some  fortunate  circumstance  or  other,  are  almost 
as  numerous  as  are  such  terrible  sentences  themselves. 

The  first  two  years  of  penal  servitude  are  the  hardest 
to  bear,  and  test  mental  endurance  more  than  the  whole 
of  the  remainder  of  an  ordinarj^  sentence.  Liberty  has 
only  just  been  parted  with.  The  picture  of  the  outside 
world  is  still  imprinted  upon  the  memory,  and  home  and 
friends,  with  perhaps  a dearer  object  still,  are  made  to 
haunt  the  recollection  whenever  the  association  of  ideas 
recalls  some  incidents  of  happier  days.  Of  these  two  years 
the  heaviest  portion  is  comprised  within  the  nine  or  ten 
months  which  must  be  spent  in  what  is  termed  “ pro- 
bation — solitary  confinement  in  Millbank  or  Penton- 
ville;  and  while  ‘‘solitary’’  is  not  much  dreaded  by  or- 
dinary prisoners  at  a later  stage  of  penal  existence,  it  is 
truly  a terrible  ordeal  to  undergo  at  the  commencement. 
In  Millbank  this  is  specially  so.  The  prison  is  but  a few 
hundred  yards  west  of  Westminster  Palace,  from  whence 
comes,  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  voice  of  Big  Ben, 
telling  the  listening  inmates  of  the  penitentiary  that 
another  fifteen  minutes  of  their  sentences  have  gone  by! 
What  horrible  punishment  has  not  that  clock  added  to 
many  an  unfortunate  wretch’s  fate,  by  counting  for  him 
the  minutes  during  which  stone  walls  and  iron  bars  loill 
a prison  make!  Then  again  there  are  the  thousand-and- 
one  noises  that  penetrate  the  lonely  cells  and  silent  cor- 
ridors of  that  cheerless  abode.  Now  it  is  the  strains  of 
a band  from  St.  James’s  Park,  “ bringing  back  to  the 
memory  merry  days  long  gone  by;”  next  it  is  the  whistle 
of  the  railway  engine,  Avith  its  suggestiveness  of  a journey 
“ home and  so  on,  during  the  long  weary  days  and  nights, 
until  the  terrible  idea  of  suicide  is  forced  across  the  mind 
as  the  only  mode  of  release  from  the  horrible  mockery  of 
the  noisy,  joyful  world  beyond  the  boundary  walls.  . . . 


840 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


This  all-sustaining  prison  virtue,  Hope,  necessarily 
begets  a kindred  sort  of  comforting  delusion  in  prisoners, 
adapting  itself  to  the  seeming  requirements  of  those  whose 
lot  is  hardest,  and  hiding  the  worst  features  of  the  objec- 
tive present  behind  a picture  of  a pleasant  and  happy, 
if  imaginary,  future.  Prison  is  the  paradise  of  castle- 
builders — the  fruitful  dreamland  of  fortunes  to  be  made, 
happiness  to  be  won,  and  pleasures  to  be  tasted,  that  shall 
more  than  compensate  for  the  trials  and  privations  of 
the  past  by  the  double  enjoyment  of  their  intrinsic  delights 
and  the  contrast  which  their  possession  will  make  to  the 
days  when  prison  walls  had  frowned  upon  liberty  and 
prison  rations  had  but  little  comparison  with  the  food  of 
the  gods.  Alnaschar  himself  never  conjured  up  so  glo- 
rious a picture  of  gratification  that  was  to  come  as  will 
the  imaginative  convict  while  employed  at  his  daily  tasks, 
or  in  confiding  his  plans  and  prospects  of  the  future  to 
some  one  who  will  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  their  narration. 
Apart  from  such  of  the  airy  structures  as  are  erected 
upon  projected  crime,  this  phase  of  criminal  mental 
activity  often  conducts  the  stream  of  convict  talk  from 
its  ordinary  track  on  ugly  themes  into  a more  pleasant 
channel,  in  which  it  is  easy  to  learn  something  of  the  better 
side  of  those  whose  blacker  deeds  and  criminal  ideas  I 
have  already  endeavored  to  sketch. 


ARTHUR  DAWSON. 


(1700?— 1775.) 

Arthur  Dawson  was  born  about  1700,  and  was  graduated  B.A, 
at  Dublin  University.  He  was  a noted  wit  and  hon  vivant  of  the 
days  of  Grattan’s  Parliament.  He  wrote  songs  and  verses,  but 
does  not  appear  to  have  published  any  collection  of  them.  He  was 
a shrewd  and  witty  lawyer  of  the  type  of  Counselor  Pleyden  in 
Scott’s  ‘Guy  Mannering.’  In  1742  he  was  appointed  Baron  of  the 
Irish  Court  of  Exchequer,  and  he  died  in  1775. 

There  is  an  amusing  story  told  about  the  origin  of  ‘ Bumpers, 
Squire  Jones.’  Carolan  and  Baron  Dawson  happened  to  be  enjoy- 
ing the  hospitalities  of  Squire  Jones  at  Money  glass,  and  slept  in 
rooms  adjacent  to  each  other.  The  bard,  being  called  upon  by  the 
company  to  compose  a song  or  tune  in  honor  of  their  host,  under- 
took to  comply  with  their  request  ; and  on  retiring  to  his  apart- 
ment took  his  harp  with  him,  and  not  only  produced  the  melody 
now  known  as  ‘ Bumpers,  Squire  Jones,’  but  also  very  indifferent 
English  words  to  it.  While  the  bard  was  thus  employed  the  Judge 
was  not  idle.  Being  possessed  of  a fine  musical  ear  as  well  as  of 
considerable  poetical  talents,  he  not  only  fixed  the  melody  on  his 
memory,  but  actually  wrote  the  song  now  incorporated  with  it  be- 
fore he  retired  to  rest.  At  breakfast  on  the  following  morning, 
when  Carolan  sang  and  played  his  composition,  Baron  Dawson,  to 
the  astonishment  of  all  present,  and  of  the  bard  in  particular, 
stoutly  denied  the  claim  of  Carolan  to  the  melody,  charged  him 
with  audacious  piracy,  both  musical  and  poetical,  and  to  prove  the 
fact,  sang  the  melody  to  his  own  words  amidst  the  joyous  shouts 
of  approbation  of  all  his  hearers — the  enraged  bard  excepted,  who 
vented  his  execrations  in  curses  on  the  Judge  both  loud  and  deep. 
The  Baron  later  on,  it  is  said,  avowed  the  source  of  his  inspiration. 

Lover  in  his  ‘Poems  of  Ireland’  says  : “In  Bunting’s  ‘General 
Collection  of  the  Ancient  Music  of  Ireland  ’ (dementi,  L<ondon)  it  is 
stated  that  the  song  was  only  imitated  from  the  original  Irish  of 
Carolan  by  Baron  Dawson,  which  I think  not  improbable.  The 
translation — if  translation  it  be — is  evidently  a free  one,  however  ; 
the  allusion  to  Salkeld  and  Ventris  is  clearly  a lawyer’s.  But, 
whether  original  or  imitated,  the  song  is  full  of  spirit  and  the  meter 
ingeniously  adapted  to  a capriciously  sportive  melody.” 

BUMPERS,  SQUIRE  JONES. 

Ye  good  fellows  all, 

Who  love  to  be  told  where  good  claret ’s  in  store, 

Attend  to  the  call 

Of  one  who ’s  ne^er  frighted, 

But  greatly  delighted 
With  six  bottles  more. 

841 


842 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Be  sure  you  don’t  pass 
The  good  house,  Moueyglass, 

Which  the  jolly  red  god  so  peculiarly  owns, 

’T  will  well  suit  your  humor — 

For,  pray,  what  would  you  more. 

Than  mirth  with  good  claret,  and  bumpers.  Squire  Jones? 


Ye  lovers  wdio  pine 

For  lasses  that  oft  prove  as  cruel  as  fair, 

Who  whimper  and  whine 
For  lilies  and  roses, 

With  eyes,  lips,  and  noses. 

Or  tip  of  an  ear! 

Come  hither,  I ’ll  show  ye 
How  Phillis  and  Chloe 

No  more  shall  occasion  such  sighs  and  such  groans; 

For  what  mortal ’s  so  stupid 
As  not  to  quit  Cupid, 

When  called  to  good  claret,  and  bumpers.  Squire  Jones? 

Ye  poets  who  write. 

And  brag  of  your  drinking  famed  Helicon’s  brook, — 
Though  all  you  get  by  it 
Is  a dinner  ofttimes, 

In  reward  for  your  rhymes. 

With  Humphry  the  Duke, — 

Learn  Bacchus  to  follow. 

And  quit  your  Apollo, 

Forsake  all  the  Muses,  those  senseless  old  crones : 

Our  jingling  of  glasses 
Your  rhyming  surpasses 

When  crowned  with  good  claret,  and  bumpers.  Squire  Jones. 
Ye  soldiers  so  stout. 

With  plenty  of  oaths,  though  no  plenty  of  coin. 

Who  make  such  a rout 
Of  all  your  commanders. 

Who  served  us  in  Flanders, 

And  eke  at  the  Boyne, — 

Come  leave  off  your  rattling 
Of  sieging  and  battling. 

And  know  you ’d  much  better  to  sleep  in  whole  bones ; 
Were  you  sent  to  Gibraltar, 

Your  notes  you ’d  soon  alter. 

And  wish  for  good  claret,  and  bumpers.  Squire  Jones. 


ARTHUR  DAW^OH, 


843 


Ye  clergy  so  wise, 

Who  mysteries  profound  can  demonstrate  so  clear, 

How  worthy  to  rise ! 

You  preach  once  a week, 

But  your  tithes  never  seek 
Above  once  in  a year ! 

Come  here  without  failing. 

And  leave  off  your  railing 
’Gainst  bishops  providing  for  dull  stupid  drones; 

Says  the  text  so  divine, 

What  is  life  without  wine?” 

Then  away  with  the  claret, — a bumper.  Squire  Jones! 

Ye  lawyers  so  just. 

Be  the  cause  what  it  will,  who  so  learnedly  plead, 

How  worthy  of  trust! 

You  know  black  from  white. 

You  prefer  wrong  to  right. 

As  you  chance  to  be  fee’d : — 

Leave  musty  reports 

And  forsake  the  king ’s  courts. 

Where  dulness  and  discord  have  set  up  their  thrones ; 

Burn  Salkeld  and  Ventris,i 
And  all  your  damned  entries. 

And  away  with  the  claret, — a bumper.  Squire  Jones! 

Ye  physical  tribe 

Whose  knowledge  consists  in  hard  words  and  grimace. 
Whene’er  you  prescribe. 

Have  at  your  devotion. 

Pills,  bolus,  or  potion. 

Be  what  will  the  case ; 

Pray  where  is  the  need 
To  purge,  blister  and  bleed? 

When,  ailing  yourselves,  the  whole  faculty  owns 
That  the  forms  of  old  Galen 
Are  not  so  prevailing 

As  mirth  with  good  claret, — and  bumpers.  Squire  Jones!. 
Ye  fox-hunters  eke. 

That  follow  the  call  of  the  horn  and  the  hound. 

Who  your  ladies  forsake 
Before  they  ’re  awake. 

To  beat  up  the  brake 


1 Law  commentators  of  the  time. 


844: 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Where  the  vermin  is  found : — 

Leave  Piper  and  Blueman, 

Shrill  Duchess  and  Trueman, — 

No  music  is  found  in  such  dissonant  tones! 

Would  you  ravish  your  ears 
With  the  songs  of  the  spheres, 

Hark  away  to  the  claret, — a bumper,  Squire  Jones! 


DANIEL  DEENEY. 


Daniel  Deeney  is  one  of  the  more  recent  collectors  of  Irish  folk 
lore.  His  book  ‘ Peasant  Lore  from  Gaelic  Ireland  ’ has  already 
gone  into  two  editions,  and  while  it  has  created  some  discussion  it 
is  generally  recognized  as  a valuable  contribution  to  the  stock  of 
folk  tales  which  have  been  recovered  from  the  people  of  the  Con- 
nemara and  Donegal  Highlands,  and  were  also  common  to  the 
Gaelic-speaking  districts  all  over  Ireland. 

A MIDNIGHT  FUNERAL. 

From  ‘ Peasant  Lore  from  Gaelic  Ireland.’ 

“ Arrah ! wheesht  wid  ye  I ’’  cried  an  old  man  with  whom 
I was  discussing  such  topics,  wid  ye  b’lieve  this? 

Would  I believe  what?  I asked. 

It ’s  as  thrue  as  I ’m  living,’’  he  rejoined.  I heerd  it 
from  the  man’s  own  lips — God  be  merciful  te  him! — an’ 
the  Lord  forbid  that  I should  belie  him ! ” 

What  was  it?  ” I inquired. 

Did  ye  know  Bryan  Duggan  that  lives  there  beyant 
in  Ballymichael?  ” answered  the  old  man,  like  the  pro- 
verbial Irishman. 

I shook  my  head. 

Oh,  no,”  he  went  on,  he  died  afore  ye  come  here. 
Well,  he  was  cornin’  home  wan  night  from  Galway.  ’T  wis 
afther  twelve  o’clock  or  maybe  drawin’  up  to  wan.  He 
had  his  horse  an’  car  wid  him,  an’  him  walkin’  along  at 
the  horse’s  head,  smokin’  away  as  content  as  ye  like,  an’ 
it  a fine  moonlight  night — glory  be  to  God! — when  what 
shud  he  see  afore  him  in  the  middle  o’  the  road  but  three 
men  carryin’  a coffin.  Sorra  long ’t  was,  sor,  till  they  let 
down  the  coffin.  Shure,  mo  leun,^  the  hair  wis  standin’ 
on  Bryan’s  head  with  fear,  but  puttin’  the  sign  o’  the  cross 
on  hisself,  he  walked  on  till  he  came  up  till  where  the 
three  men  wor  standi n’  beside  the  coffin. 

^ The  blissin’  o’  God  on  ye,’  said  Bryan  in  Irish,  ^ an’ 
what’s  wrong  with  yees  at  all,  at  all?’ 

‘ The  same  till  yerself,’  spoke  up  wan  o’  the  three ; ^ but 
come  an’  take  a fourth  man’s  place  under  this,  an’  akse 
no  more  questions.’ 

1 Mo  leun,  to  my  sorrow, 

845 


846 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Well,  sor,  he  wis  goin’  till  akse,  ^ what  ’ll  I do  with  me 
horse  an’  car?  ’ but  he  thought  o’  hisself  in  time,  an’  he 
didn’t  ; for  ye  see  he  wis  towld  till  akse  no  more  questions, 
an’  it  widn’t  be  right  for  him  t’  go  agin  them.  But,  sorra 
call  he  had,  for  it ’s  well  they  knew  what  wis  passin’  in 
his  min’,  an’  says  another  o’  them,  says  he,  ‘ yer  horse  an’ 
car  ’ll  be  here  till  ye  come  back.’ 

Well,  he  went  with  them  an’  helped  them  t’  carry  the 
coffin,  an’  sorra  a heavier  corpse — the  Lord  be  good  te 
us! — he  said  he  iver  was  undher.  They  went  on  till  they 
left  it  in  the  graveyard,  an’  then  they  towld  him  he  might 
go  back  te  his  horse  an’  car.  ^ Oh,’  says  Bryan,  says  he, 
‘ I ’ll  help  yees  t’  dig  the  grave  whin  I did  come.’ 

“ ^ Do  what  yer  towld,’  says  the  third  o’  them  that  didn’t 
speak  afore,  ^ or  maybe  it  wid  be  worse  for  ye.’ 

Well,  sor,  Bryan  wis  loath  till  say  agin  them,  so  he 
wint  back  to  his  horse  an’  car,  an’  shure  enough  they  wor 
there  afore  him,  on  the  very  spot  he  left  them.” 

“ Did  Bryan  know  the  men?  ” I inquired  when  the  old 
man  had  finished. 

“ Did  he  know  them?  Feth,  thin,  he  did,  for  they  wor 
three  first  cousins  o’  his  own  that  died  long  afore  that.” 

“ And  who  was  in  the  coffin?  ” 

Bryan’s  own  brother  that  died  in  Califoornia  that 
same  night,  as  he  heerd  afterwards  in  a letther  that  come 
from  his  uncle  in  America.” 

The  old  man  assured  me  that  Bryan  niver  towld  a lie 
in  his  life,  an ’s  dead  now — God  be  merciful  to  him ! ” 
Amen,”  said  I fervently. 

Dear  reader  do  not  scoff!  You  may  never  be  called 
upon  to  assist  the  dead  to  carry  the  dead  at  a mysterious 
midnight  funeral;  nevertheless,  cast  not  ridicule  upon  the 
story  of  Bryan  Duggan’s  experience. 


A LITTLE  WOMAN  IN  BED. 

From  ‘ Peasant  Lore  from  Gaelic  Ireland.’ 

It  was  about  six  o’clock  on  a harvest  morning — not  long 
ago,  but  quite  recently.  The  dew  was  yet  upon  the  oats 
and  upon  the  grass.  Mickey  Owen  ” was  fixing  up  the 


DANIEL  DEENEY. 


847 


face  of  the  corn  ridge  with  his  reaping  hook  in  the  little 
garden  below  the  road,  the  shore  road  between  Carraroe 
and  Galway. 

He  never  felt,’’  as  he  himself  assured  me,  till  a little 
woman  with  a.red  petticoat  upon  her  head  and  around  her 
shoulders  stood  by  his  side.  God  bliss  yer  work,”  said 
she  to  him.  You  too,”  replied  Mickey,  with  a start. 

Can  ye  show  me  the  road  to  Galway?  ” said  the  little 
woman  in  red — the  outer  nether  garment  she  wore,  and 
which  reached  down  to  her  shoeless  feet,  was  red  also. 

a T]2ere  it  is  above  there,”  said  Mickey,  pointing  to  the 
main  road,  between  which  and  where  they  stood  there  was 
only  one  other  smaller  garden. 

“ But  could  I not  get  to  the  road  this  way?  ” inquired 
the  little  woman,  waving  her  hand  straight  across  the 
garden  in  a direction  parallel  to  the  road. 

Well,  ye  could,”  replied  Mickey,  but  not  so  aisy. 
If  ye  go  over  through  the  gardens,  ye  ’ll  come  on  a 
boreen  that  ’ll  bring  ye  till  the  road.  But  shure  ye  have 
nothin’  till  do  but  go  out  on  the  road  here,  an’  ye  ’ll  have 
only  that  little  wall  there  between  the  other  garden  an’ 
the  road  to  cross.” 

I ’ll  go  the  way  I think  best  meself,”  says  she,  and  in- 
stantly disappeared  as  if  she  had  melted  into  air. 

Mickey  was  terribly  frightened,  for  then  he  knew  she 
was  no  earthly  body,”  as  he  said  himself. 

Dear  reader,  once  more  I caution  you  not  to  cast  ridi- 
cule upon  such  stories.  They  are  not  fictions.  They  are 
the  real  experiences  of  our  Gaelic  friends,  who  hold 
occasional  commune  with  stray  travelers  of  the  mystic 
world. 


STRANGE  INDEED! 

From  ‘ Peasant  Lore  from  Gaelic  Ireland.’ 

One  of  the  most  remarkable,  and  best  authenticated, 
stories  I have  ever  heard  was  narrated  to  me  quite  recently 
by  one  who  doubted  not  the  truth  of  it.  The  narrator 
told  it  in  whispers.  It  was  too  solemn  to  be  dealt  with 
in  the  ordinary  conversational  tone,  too  mysterious  to  be 


848 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


lightly  or  flippantly  rehearsed.  He  did  not  wish  to  let 
it  ‘^go  any  farther."  It  was  better  not  to  say  too  much 
about  it.’^  I cannot,  therefore,  give  the  names  of  the 
dramatis  personw,  if  I may  without  levity  so  designate 
them.  Nor  is  it  necessary.  The  facts  lose  ;iothing  by  the 
omission. 

Two  3mung  men  in  a western  country  took  a boat,  and 
rowed  to  a fair  one  spring  morning  not  very  long  ago. 
They  took  a little  drop  too  much  at  the  fair  themselves, 
and  they  took  a little  drop  with  them  in  a bottle — for 
themselves,  too,  no  doubt.  They  set  sail  before  a fair 
wind  on  their  return  late  in  the  evening.  They  had  some- 
thing over  twelve  miles  to  go. 

In  their  little  village  at  home  they  had  left  a friend  and 
comrade.  This  young  man  had  gone  to  the  bog  for  turf 
on  the  fair  evening,  just  about  half  an  hour  after  his  two 
friends  left  the  fair. 

He  filled  his  creel,  got  it  on  his  back,  and  started  for 
home.  Chancing  to  look  round,  he  saw,  seated  on  a little 
heathery  mound,  the  two  young  men  who,  as  I have  stated, 
had  left  the  fair  twelve  miles  distant  only  half  an  hour 
before.  The3^  had  a bottle,  and  were  apparently  enjoy- 
ing themselves.  They  beckoned  to  him  to  go  to  them, 
lie  sat  down  on  the  heath  to  get  the  creel  more  easily  off 
his  back,  and  then — they  were  nowhere  to  be  seen  I 

He  had  seen  them  plainly,  he  had  not  expected  them 
back  so  early,  and  he  could  not  have  been  deceived. 
Believing  they  were  trying  to  trick  him,’^  he  looked  all 
round  about  in  the  long  heather  behind  the  little  clamps’^ 
of  turf,  everywhere — but  they  were  not  to  be  seen  any- 
where! Greatly  astonished,  and  frightened,  too,  he  hast- 
ened home  and  told  what  he  had  seen.  He  and  a few  of  the 
neighbors  went  to  the  beach  to  ascertain  if  the  boat  had 
returned.  It  was  not  there.  No,  indeed!  It  was  found 
next  morning  broken  in  fragments  in  a little  cave  ten 
miles  further  away!  Nine  days  afterwards  the  bodies  of 
the  two  unfortunate  young  men  who  had  been  its  occupants 
were,  washed  ashore.  A strange,  strange  story,  but  one 
which  I have  not  concocted.  I tell  my  tales  as  they  were 
told  to  me.^^ 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 

(1615—1669.) 

Sir  John  Denham  was  bom  in  Dublin  in  1615.  He  was  educated 
in  England,  and  after  taking  his  degree  at  Oxford  he  went  to  Lon- 
don to  study  law.  But  cards  and  dice  had  more  attraction  for  him 
than  learning  or  law,  and  he  was  constantly  relapsing  into  the  vice 
of  gambling,  until,  in  1638,  when  his  father  died,  he  lost  all  the 
money — several  thousand  pounds — that  had  been  left  him. 

Sir  John  Denham  should  have  a special  interest  for  our  readers 
because  he  was  the  first  Irish  poet  of  repute  who  wrote  in  English. 
His  tragedy  called  ‘ The  Sophy  ’ appeared  in  1641.  Speaking  of  the 
poet  in  connection  with  this  piece.  Waller  said  that  ‘‘  he  broke  out 
like  the  Irish  rebellion,  threescore  thousand  strong,  when  nobody 
was  aware  or  in  the  least  suspected  it.”  After  this  he  retired  to 
Oxford,  where,  in  1643,  he  published  ‘Cooper’s  Hill,’  a poem  of 
some  three  hundred  lines,  on  which  his  fame  chiefly  rests. 

During  all  this  time  he  continued  to  take  a prominent  part  in 
public  affairs,  acting  for  the  King  in  several  capacities.  At  the 
Restoration  he  was  appointed  to  the  office  of  Surveyer-General  Of 
the  King’s  buildings,  and  at  the  coronation  received  the  Order  of  the 
Bath. 

Soon  after  this,  when  in  the  height  of  his  reputation  for  poetry 
and  genius,  he  married  for  the  second  time ; but  the  union  was  so 
unhappy  that  for  a time  he  became  a lunatic.  Fortunately  he  was 
very  soon  restored  to  his  full  health  and  vigor  of  mind.  He  died 
at  his  office  in  Whitehall,  March  19,  1669,  and  was  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

Dr.  Johnson  says  that  “ Denham  is  justly  considered  as  one  of 
the  fathers  of  English  poetry.  . . . He  is  one  of  the  writers  that  im- 
proved our  taste  and  advanced  our  language.”  Prior  places  Denham 
and  Waller  side  by  side  as  improvers  of  English  versification,  which 
was  perfected  by  Dry  den.  Pope  in  his  ‘ Essay  on  Criticism  ’ speaks  of 

“ the  easy  vigor  of  a line 

Where  Denham’s  strength  and  Waller’s  sweetness  join 

and  in  his  ‘ Windsor  Forest  ’ he  calls  Denham  “ lofty  ” and  “ ma- 
jestic,” and,  talking  of  ‘ Cooper’s  Hill,’  he  prophesies — 

“ On  Cooper’s  Hill  eternal  wreaths  shall  grow, 

While  lasts  the  mountain,  or  while  Thames  shall  flow.” 

A modern  critic,  however,  Mr.  Edmund  W.  Gosse,  says  : “The 
works  of  Denham  are  small  in  extent.  The  miscellaneous  pieces 
and  ‘ Cooper’s  Hill  ’ are  all  that  need  attract  critical  attention.  The 
reputation  of  the  last-mentioned  poem  rests  almost  entirely  upon 
its  famous  quatrain  describing  the  river  Thames  : — 

“ O could  I flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 

Though  deep  yet  clear,  though  gentle  yet  not  dull, 

Strong  without  rage,  without  o’erflowing  full.” 

849 


850 


IRl^H  LITERATURE, 


VIEW  OF  LONDON. 

From  ‘ Cooper’s  Hill.’ 

Through  imtraced  ways  and  airy  paths  I fly, 

More  boundless  in  my  fancy  than  my  eye, — 

My  eye,  which  swift  as  thought  contracts  the  space 
That  lies  between,  and  first  salutes  the  place 
Crowned  with  that  sacred  pile,  so  vast,  so  high. 

That  whether ’t  is  a part  of  earth  or  sky 
Uncertain  seems,  and  may  be  thought  a proud 
Aspiring  mountain  or  descending  cloud, — 

Paul’s,  the  late  theme  of  such  a Muse  whose  flight 
Has  bravely  reached  and  soared  above  thy  height ; 
Now  shalt  thou  stand,  though  sword  or  time  or  fire, 

Or  zeal  more  fierce  than  they,  thy  fall  conspire. 
Secure,  while  thee  the  best  of  poets  sings. 

Preserved  from  ruin  by  the  best  of  kings. 

Under  his  proud  survey  the  city  lies. 

And  like  a mist  beneath  a hill  doth  rise. 

Whose  state  and  wealth,  the  business  and  the  crowd. 
Seems  at  this  distance  but  a darker  cloud. 

And  is  to  him  who  rightly  things  esteems 
No  other  in  effect  but  what  it  seems. 

Where,  with  like  haste,  though  several  ways,  they  run, 
Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone; 

While  luxury  and  wealth,  like  war  and  peace. 

Are  each  the  other’s  ruin  and  increase ; 

As  rivers  lost  in  seas  some  secret  vein 
Thence  reconveys,  there  to  be  lost  again. 

O happiness  of  sweet  retired  content! 

To  be  at  once  secure  and  innocent ! 


SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


(1788—1846.) 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  Vere  Hunt,  who 
afterward  took  the  name  of  De  Vere.  He  was  born  at  Curragh 
Chase  in  County  Limerick,  Aug.  28,  1788,  received  his  education 
at  Harrow,  where  he  had  for  schoolfellows  Byron  and  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  and  when  very  young  he  married  Mary,  a sister  of  Lord  Mont- 
eagle.  He  wrote  little  till  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty.  His 
first  work  was  a dramatic  poem  entitled  ‘Julian  the  Apostate,’ 
which  appeared  in  1822.  He  next  published  ‘ The  Duke  of  Mercia,’ 
an  historical  drama  in  verse;  ‘A  Lamentation  for  Ireland,’  and 
other  poems  ; followed  in  1842  by  ‘ A Song  of  Faith,  Devout  Ex- 
ercises and  Sonnets,’  which  he  dedicated  tc  Wordsworth.  We  are 
told  by  his  son  that  the  ‘ ‘ sonnet  was  with  him  to  the  last  a favorite 
form  of  composition.  This  taste  was  fostered  by  the  magnificent 
sonnets  of  Wordsworth,  whose  genius  he  had  early  hailed,  and  whose 
friendship  he  regarded  as  one  of  the  chief  honors  of  his  later  life.” 
His  last  work  was  ‘ Mary  Tudor,’  published  after  his  death  in  1847, 
and  written  during  the  last  year  of  his  life  in  intervals  of  severe 
illness.  Sir  Aubrey  died  as  he  had  lived,  peacefully  in  the  arms  of 
his  family  at  Curragh  Chase,  July  28,  1846. 

“ His  ‘ Mary  Tudor,’  ” says  Mr.  W.  MacNeile  Dixon  in  ‘ A Treasury 
of  Irish  Poetry,’  “ is  worthy  of  comparison  with  the  Histories  of  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  In  the  delineation  of  Queen 
Mary  we  possess  a portrait  the  most  arresting  that  the  modern 
drama  has  to  offer — a portrait  at  once  human  and  royal,  at  once  tragic 
and  convincing.”  Love  for  his  native  land  breathes  through  every 
line  of  his  ‘ Lamentation  for  Ireland,’  and  his  sonnets,  such  as 
‘The  Shannon,’  ‘Lismor^,’  ‘The  Soldiers  of  Sarsfield,’  and  many 
others,  are  redolent  of  the  same  feeling.  Wordsworth  regarded  his 
sonnets  as  among  the  most  perfect  of  our  age. 

LADY  JANE  GREY. 

From  ‘ Mary  Tudor.’ 

[A  few  moments  before  her  execution,  she  takes  her  last  farewell 
of  her  weeping  mother.] 

This  bridal  ring — the  symbol  of  past  joy? 

What  shall  I give  thee? — they  have  left  me  little — 

What  slight  memorial  through  soft  tears  to  gaze  on? 

I cannot  part  with  it;  upon  this  finger 
It  must  go  down  into  the  grave.  Perchance 
After  long  years  some  curious  hand  may  find  it, 

Bright,  like  our  better  hopes,  amid  the  dust, 

And  piously,  with  a low  sigh,  replace  it. 

851 


852 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Here,  take  this  veil,  and  wear  it  for  my  sake. 

And  take  this  winding-sheet  to  him,  and  this 
Small  handkerchief,  so  wetted  with  my  tears. 

To  wipe  the  death-damp  from  his  brow.  This  kiss— 
And  this — my  last — print  on  his  lips,  and  bid  him 
Think  of  me  to  the  last,  and  wait  my  spirit. 

Farewell,  my  mother!  Farewell,  dear,  dear  mother! 
These  terrible  moments  I must  pass  in  prayer — 

For  the  dying — for  the  dead  I Farewell ! farewell ! 


LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Some  laws  there  are  too  sacred  for  the  hand 
Of  man  to  approach : recorded  in  the  blood 
Of  patriots,  before  which,  as  the  Rood 
Of  faith,  devotional  we  take  our  stand; 
Time-hallowed  laws!  Magnificently  planned 
When  Freedom  was  the  nurse  of  i^ublic  good, 
And  Power  paternal : laws  that  have  withstood 
All  storms,  unshaken  bulwarks  of  the  land ! 

Free  will,  frank  speech,  an  undissembling  mind. 
Without  which  Freedom  dies  and  laws  are  vain, 
On  such  we  found  our  rights,  to  such  we  cling; 
In  them  shall  power  his  surest  safeguard  find. 
Tread  them  not  down  in  passion  or  disdain ; 
Make  a man  a reptile,  he  will  turn  and  sting. 


THE  SHANNON. 

River  of  billows,  to  whose  mighty  heart 
The  tide-wave  rushes  of  the  Atlantic  Sea; 

River  of  quiet  depths,  by  cultured  lea. 

Romantic  wood  or  city’s  crowded  mart; 

River  of  old  poetic  founts,  which  start 

From  their  lone  mountain-cradles,  wild  and  free. 
Nursed  with  the  fawns,  lulled  by  the  woodlark’s  glee, 
And  cushat’s  hymeneal  song  apart; 

River  of  chieftains,  whose  baronial  halls, 

Like  veteran  warders,  watch  each  wave-worn  steep, 
Portumna’s  towers,  Bunratty’s  royal  walls, 

Garrick’s  stern  rock,  the  Geraldine’s  gray  keep— 
River  of  dark  mementoes!  must  I close 
My  lips  with  Limerick’s  wrong,  with  Aughrim’s  woes? 


AUBREY  T.  DE  VERE. 


(1814—1902.) 

Aubrey  Thomas  de  Vere,  the  third  son  of  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere, 
was  born  in  1814  at  the  paternal  mansion,  Curragh  Chase,  County 
Limerick,  and  he  was  educated  at  Trinity  College.  He  composed 
both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  and  the  list  of  his  works  is  a long  one. 
In  1842  appeared  ‘The  Waldenses,  or  the  Fall  of  Rora,’  a lyrical 
tale  ; in  1843,  ‘ The  Search  after  Proserpine,  Recollections  of  Greece, 
and  other  Poems  ’ ; in  1856,  ‘ Poems^  Miscellaneous  and  Sacred  ’ ; 
in  1857,  ‘ May  Carols  ’ ; in  1861,  ‘ The  Sisters,  Inisfail,  and  other 
Poems  ’ ; in  1864,  ‘ The  Infant  Bridal,  and  other  Poems  ’ ; in  1869, 
‘ Irish  Odes,  and  other  Poems  ’ ; in  1872,  ‘ The  Legends  of  St.  Pat- 
rick ’ ; in  1874,  ‘ Alexander  the  Great,’  a dramatic  poem ; and  in 
1879,  ‘ Legends  of  the  Saxon  Saints.’  Besides  the  above-mentioned 
drama  he  has  written  ‘ St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury,’  ‘ The  Foray  of 
Queen  Mseve’  (1882)  ; ‘ Legends  and  Records  of  the  Church  and  the 
Empire  ’ (1887)  ; ‘ St.  Peter’s  Chains  ’ (1888)  ; ‘ Mediaeval  Records 
and  Sonnets.’ 

His  prose  works  are  ‘ English  Misrule  and  Irish  Misdeeds  ’ (1848)  ; 
‘ Picturesque  Sketches  of  Greece  and  Turkey  ’ (1850)  ; ‘ The  Church 
Settlement  of  Ireland,  or  Hibernia  Pacanda  ’ (1866)  ; ‘ Ireland’s 
Church  Property  and  the  Right  Use  of  It  ’ (1867)  ; ‘ Pleas  for 
Secularization  ’ (1867)  ; ‘ Essays,  chiefly  on  Poetry  ’ (1887) ; ‘ Essays, 
chiefly  Literary  and  Ethical’  (1889)  ; and  ‘Recollections’  (1897). 
A volume  of  correspondence  entitled  ‘ Proteus  and  Amadeus,’  in 
which  the  chief  religious  and  philosophical  questions  in  controversy 
at  the  time  were  reviewed,  published  in  1878,  was  edited  by  Mr.  De 
Vere. 

His  ‘ Inisfail  ’ is  the  one  of  his  volumes  of  poetry  which  perhaps 
possesses  the  greatest  interest  for  Irish  readers.  The  idea  is  very 
original  ; it  is  to  convey  in  a series  of  poems  a picture  of  the  chief 
events  in  certain  great  cycles  of  Irish  history.  “Its  aim,”  wrote 
the  poet  himself,  “is  to  embody  the  essence  of  a nation’s  history. 
Contemporary  historic  poems,”  he  went  on,  “ touch  us  with  a magi- 
cal hand;  but  they  often  pass  by  the  most  important  events,  and 
linger  beside  the  most  trivial.”  Accordingly  he  illustrated  each 
epoch  by  some  representative  poem  and  event.  At  one  time  he  cele- 
brates a great  victory  in  the  joyous  swing  of  the  ballad  ; at  another 
an  elegy  depicts  the  darkness  of  a nation’s  defeat.  A great  reli- 
gious epoch  is  celebrated  in  stately  rhyme  ; and  at  another  moment 
the  poet  has  resort  to  a lighter  measure  when  individual  love  plays 
an  important  part  in  fashioning  the  history  of  the  future.  In  this 
way  the  history  of  Ireland  is  presented  in  a series  of  tableaux. 

The  volume  published  under  the  title  of  ‘ The  Infant  Bridal  ’ also 
contains  many  exquisite  gems  from  his  various  works.  His  prose 
style  combines  the  two  qualities  of  simplicity  and  cultured  grace. 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  who  has  been  well  called  “the  wearer  of  Words- 

853 


854 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


worth’s  mantle,”  died  at  Curragh  Chase,  Adare,  County  Limerick, 
to  the  great  loss  of  poetry,  in  January,  1903. 

“ Simplicity,”  says  Mr.  W.  MacNeile  Dixon  in  ‘A  Treasury  of 
Irish  Poetry,’  “with  full-heartedness — whether  in  joy  or  gi*ief — a 
childlike  transparency  of  soul,  a courageous  spirituality,  these  Celtic 
qualities  Mr.  De  Vere’s  poetry  preserves  for  us  ; and  because  it  pre- 
serves them  his  memory  and  his  work  are  safe.  He  will  be  enrolled 
as  a worthy  successor  to  the  bards  of  long  ago,  from  Oiseen  or 

“That  Taliessin  once  who  made  the  rivers  dance, 

And  in  his  rapture  raised  the  mountains  from  their  trance.” 

HOW  TO  GOVERN  IRELAND. 

From  ‘ English  Misrule  and  Irish  Misdeeds.’ 

I do  not  affirm,  or  imply,  that  England  possesses  less  of 
moral  truth  than  other  nations  which  make  it  less  their 
boast.  I state  simply  that  it  does  not  bear  that  propor- 
tion which  it  ought  to  her  verbal  truth,  and  therefore  that 
she  has  nothing  to  boast  of  in  this  particular.  Does  a 
truthful  nation,  when  called  on  to  act,  allow  the  gates  of 
new  and  serviceable  knowledge  to  be  blocked  up  by  a litter 
of  wilful  and  sottish  prejudices?  Is  it  a truthful  act  to 
judge  where  you  have  no  materials,  and  to  condemn  where 
you  pause  not  to  judge?  You  often  depict  with  minute- 
ness and  consistency  the  character  of  an  Irish  peasant 
or  proprietor.  As  long  as  a class  of  men  seems  to  you 
stamped  with  one  common  image,  conclude  that  you  see  it 
but  from  a distance,  and  as  a mask.  On  closer  inspec- 
tion you  would  trace  the  diversities  of  individuality.  You 
know  no  more  of  the  Irish  peasant  or  proprietor  than  the 
former  knows  of  you,  and  you  as  little  care  to  know  them. 

I do  not  call  the  Irish  the  finest  peasantry  in  the  world, 
although,  if  their  characters  were  equal  to  their  disposi- 
tions, they  might,  perhaps,  justly  be  so  termed;  but  I have 
no  reason  to  believe  that  they  are  inferior,  in  aught  but 
happiness  and  sphere*  for  goodness,  to  the  same  class  in 
England.  The  Irish  peasant,  sir,  is  rich  in  virtues,  which 
you  know  not  of  because  you  know  only  the  worst  class  of 
Irish,  and  only  hear  of  the  rest  when  they  are  found  want- 
ing under  the  severest  temptations.  Amongst  his  virtues 
are  many  which,  perhaps,  no  familiarity  would  enable  you 
to  recognize.  I speak  of  the  Irish  peasant  as  a man  and 
as  a Christian,  not  as  a citizen  merely.  There  is  a differ- 


AUBREY  T,  DE  VERE. 


855 


ence  between  public  and  individual  virtues:  to  the  latter 
class  belong  many  which,  by  their  own  nature,  remain 
exempt  from  applause  or  material  reward ; and  among  the 
former  there  are  commonly  accounted  several  vices.  Self- 
confidence,  ruthlessness,  and  greediness — these  are  not 
virtues;  but  notwithstanding,  when  associated  with  a 
manliness  as  willing  to  suffer  as  to  inflict  pain,  and  an 
industry  if  not  disinterested  yet  dutiful,  these  defects  may 
help  to  swell  the  prosperity  of  a nation,  as  long  as  she 
swims  with  the  tide.  Many  of  the  crowning  virtues  of  per- 
sonal character  may  be  possessed  where  several  funda- 
mental virtues  of  civil  society  are  wanting. 

The  Irish  peasant  has  a patience  under  real  sufferings 
quite  as  signal  as  his  impatience  under  imaginary  grie- 
vances; and  in  spite  of  a complexional  conceit  not  uncom- 
mon, he  has  a moral  humility  that  does  not  help  him  to 
make  his  way.  He  possesses  a reverence  that  will  not  be 
repulsed;  a gratitude  that  sometimes  excites  our  remorse; 
a refinement  of  sensibility,  and  even  of  tact,  which  re- 
minds you  that  many  who  toil  for  bread  are  the  descend- 
ants of  those  who  once  sat  in  high  places;  aspirations  that 
fly  above  the  mark  of  national  greatness ; a faith  and  char- 
ity not  common  in  the  modern  world;  an  acknowledged 
exemption  from  sensual  habits,  both  those  that  pass  by 
that  name,  and  those  that  invent  fine  names  for  them- 
selves; and  an  extraordinary  fidelity  to  the  ties  of  house- 
hold and  kindred,  the  more  remarkable  from  being  united 
with  a versatile  intellect,  a temperament  mercurial  as  well 
as  ardent,  and  an  ever  salient  imagination.  These  virtues 
are  not  inconsistent  with  grave  faults,  but  they  are  virtues 
of  the  first  order.  I will  only  add,  that  if  England  has  wit 
enough  to  make  these  virtues  her  friends,  she  will  have  con- 
ciliated the  affections  of  a people  the  least  self-loving  in 
the  world,  and  the  services  of  a people  amongst  whom,  in 
the  midst  of  much  light  folly,  there  is  enough  of  indolent 
ability  to  direct  the  whole  councils  of  England,  and  of 
three  or  four  kingdoms  beside — provided  only  that  Ire- 
land be  not  of  the  number. 

I have  already  recommended  you  to  study  the  Irish  if 
you  would  learn  how  to  govern  Ireland ; and  though  I can- 
not undertake  to  be  your  master,  yet  I would  seriously 
advise  you  not  to  allow  yourself  to  dwell  only  on  the  worst 


85G 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


side  of  the  naticnal  character.  If  you  laugh  at  an  Irish 
peasant's  helplessness,  remember  that  he  is  as  willing  to 
help  a neighbor  as  to  ask  aid;  and  that  he  has  a remark- 
able faculty  for  doing  all  business  not  his  own.  If  you 
think  him  deficient  in  steadiness  under  average  circum- 
stances, remember  that  he  possesses  extraordinary  re- 
source and  powers  of  adaption.  If  you  think  him  easily 
deluded,  remember  that  the  same  quick  and  fine  tempera- 
ment which  makes  him  catch  every  infection  or  humor  in 
the  air  renders  him  equally  accessible  to  all  good  in- 
fluences; of  which  the  recent  temperance  movement  is  the 
most  remarkable  example  exhibited  by  any  modern  nation. 

You  accuse  the  Irish  peasant  of  want  of  gravity:  one 
reason  of  this  characteristic  is,  that  with  him  imagination 
and  fancy  are  faculties  not  working  by  themselves,  but 
diffused  through  the  whole  being;  and  remember  that,  if 
they  favor  enthusiasm,  so  on  the  other  hand  they  protect 
from  fanaticism.  If  you  speak  of  his  occasional  depres- 
sion and  weakness,  you  should  know  that  Irish  strength 
does  not  consist  in  robustness,  but  in  elasticity.  If  you 
complain  of  his  want  of  ambition,  remember  that  this 
often  proceeds  from  the  genuine  independence  of  a mind 
and  temperament  which  possesses  too  many  resources  in 
themselves  to  be  dependent  on  outward  position;  and  do 
not  forget  that  much  of  the  boasted  progress  of  England 
results  from  no  more  exalted  a cause  than  from  an  un- 
comfortable habit  of  body,  not  easy  when  at  rest.  If  you 
think  him  deficient  in  a sound  judgment,  ask  whether  his 
mental  faculties  may  not  be  eminently  of  a subtle  and  met- 
aphysical character,  and  whether  such  are  not  generally 
disconnected  from  a perfect  practical  judgment. 

You  are  amused  because  he  commits  blunders:  ask 
whether  he  may  not  possibly  think  wrong  twice  as  often 
as  the  English  peasant,  and  yet  think  right  five  times  as 
often,  since  he  thinks  ten  times  as  much,  and  has  a rea- 
son for  everything  that  he  does.  Y^ou  call  him  idle:  ask 
whether  he  does  not  possess  a facility  and  readiness  not 
usually  united  with  painstaking  qualities;  and  remember 
that,  when  fairly  tried,  he  by  no  means  wants  industry, 
though  he  is  deficient  in  energy.  You  think  him  addicted 
to  fancy  rather  than  realities: — poverty  is  a great  feeder 
of  enthusiasm.  You  object  to  his  levity; — competence  is 


AUBREY  T.  DE  YERE. 


857 


a sustainer  of  respectability ; and  many  a man  is  steadied 
by  the  weight  of  the  cash  in  his  pocket.  You  call  him 
wrong-headed : ask  whether  the  state  of  things  around  him, 
the  bequest  of  past  misgovernment,  is  not  so  wrong  as  to 
puzzle  even  the  solid  sense  of  many  an  English  statesman, 
not  inexperienced  in  affairs;  and  whether  the  good  inten- 
tions and  the  actions  of  those  who  would  benefit  the  Irish 
peasant  are  not  sometimes,  even  now,  so  strangely  at  cross 
purposes  as  to  make  the  quiet  acceptance  of  the  boon  no 
easy  task.  You  think  him  slow  to  follow  your  sensible  pre- 
cepts : remember  that  the  Irish  are  imitative,  and  that  the 
imitative  have  no  great  predilection  for  the  didactic  vein : 
and  do  not  forget  that  for  a considerable  time  your  ex- 
ample was  less  edifying  than  your  present  precepts.  You 
affirm  that  no  one  requires  discipline  so  much;  remember 
that  none  repays  it  so  well;  and  that,  as  to  the  converse 
need,  there  is  no  one  who  requires  so  little  aid  to  second 
his  intellectual  development.  The  respect  of  his  neighbor, 
you  say,  is  what  he  hardly  seeks : remember  how  often  he 
wins  his  love,  and  even  admiration,  without  seeking  it. 
You  think  that  he  hangs  loosely  by  his  opinions:  ask 
whether  he  is  not  devoted  to  his  attachments.  He  seems  to 
you  inconsistent  in  action : reflect  whether  extreme  versa- 
tility of  mind  and  consistency  of  conduct  are  qualities  often 
united  in  one  man.  You  complain  of  the  disposition  of  the 
Irish  to  collect  in  mobs : ask  whether,  if  you  can  once  gain 
the  ear  of  an  Irish  mob,  it  is  not  far  more  accessible  to 
reason  than  an  English  one. 

I have  addressed  myself  to  Irish  mobs  under  various  cir- 
cumstances in  the  last  two  years,  and  encountered  none 
that  was  not  amenable.  Ask  also  whether  in  most  coun- 
tries the  lower  orders  have  not  enough  to  do,  as  well  as 
enough  to  eat  in  the  day,  and  consequently  a disposition  to 
sleep  at  night.  If  half  your  English  population  had  only  to 
walk  about  and  form  opinions,  how  do  you  think  you  would 
get  on?  You  say  that  the  Irish  have  no  love  of  fair  play, 
and  that  three  men  of  one  faction  will  fall  on  one  man  of 
another : ask  those  who  reflect  as  well  as  observe,  whether 
this  proceeds  wholly  from  want  of  fair  play  or  from  other 
causes  beside.  Ask  whether  in  Ireland  the  common  senti- 
ment of  race,  kindred,  or  clan,  does  not  prevail  with  an 
intensity  not  elsewhere  united  with  a perfect  appreciation 

4— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


858 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


of  responsibilities  and  immunities;  and  whether  an  Irish’ 
beggar  will  not  give  you  as  hearty  a blessing  in  return  for 
a halfpenny  bestowed  on  another  of  his  order  as  on  him- 
self. Sympathy  includes  a servile  element,  and  servile 
sympathy  will  always  lead  to  injustice; — thus  I have  heard 
a hundred  members  of  Parliament  (and  of  party)  drown 
in  one  cry,  like  that  of  a well-managed  pack,  the  voice  of 
some  member  whom  they  disapproved,  and  whom  probably 
they  considered  less  as  a man  than  as  a limb  of  a hated 
enemy.  Sympathy,  however,  often  ministers  to  justice 
also,  as  you  find  on  asking  an  Irish  gentlemen  whether  he 
has  not  often  been  astonished  at  that  refinement  of  fair 
play  with  which  an  Irish  peasant  makes  allowances  for 
the  difficulties  of  some  great  neighbor,  whose  aid  is  his 
only  hope. 


THE  SUN  GOD. 

I saw  the  Master  of  the  Sun.  He  stood 

High  in  his  luminous  car,  himself  more  bright — 
An  Archer  of  immeasurable  might; 

On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  quivered  load. 
Spurned  by  his  steeds  the  eastern  mountain  glowed, 
Forward  his  eager  eye  and  brow  of  light 
He  bent;  and,  while  both  hands  that  arch  embowed. 
Shaft  after  shaft  pursued  the  flying  Night. 

No  wings  profaned  that  godlike  form;  around 
His  neck  high  held  an  ever-moving  crowd 
Of  locks  hung  glistening;  while  such  perfect  sound 
Fell  from  his  bowstring  that  th’  ethereal  dome 
Thrilled  as  a dewdrop ; and  each  passing  cloud 
Expanded,  whitening  like  the  ocean  foam. 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK  ROSE. 

The  Little  Black  Rose  ^ shall  be  red  at  last; 

What  made  it  black  but  the  March  wind  dry. 
And  the  tear  of  the  widow  that  fell  on  it  fast? 

It  shall  redden  the  hills  when  June  is  nigh ! 

1 Mystical  names  of  Ireland  frequently  occur  in  Gaelic  poetry. 


'AUBREY  T.  DE  YERE. 


859 


The  Silk  of  the  Kine  shall  rest  at  last ; 

What  drove  her  forth  but  the  dragon  fly? 

In  the  golden  vale  she  shall  feed  full  fast, 

With  her  mild  gold  horn  and  her  slow  dark  eye. 

The  wounded  wood-dove  lies  dead  at  last! 

The  pine  long-bleeding,  it  shall  not  die! 

This  song  is  secret.  Mine  ear  it  passed 
In  a wind  o^er  the  plains  at  Athenry, 


DIRGE  OF  RORY  O’MORE. 

A.  D.  1642. 

Up  the  sea-saddened  valley,  at  evening’s  decline, 

A heifer  walks  lowing — the  Silk  of  the  Kine ; ” 

From  the  deep  to  the  mountains  she  roams,  and  again 
From  the  mountain’s  green  urn  to  the  purple-rimmed  main. 

What  seek’st  thou,  sad  mother?  Thine  own  is  not  thine! 

He  dropped  from  the  headland — he  sank  in  the  brine! 

’T  was  a dream ! but  in  dreams  at  thy  foot  did  he  follow 
Through  the  meadow-sweet  on  by  the  marish  and  mallow! 

Was  he  thine?  Have  they  slain  him?  Thou  seek’st  him,  not 
knowing 

Thyself,  too,  art  theirs — thy  sweet  breath  and  sad  lowing! 
Thy  gold  horn  is  theirs,  thy  dark  eye  and  thy  silk. 

And  that  which  torments  thee,  thy  milk,  is  their  milk ! 

’T  was  no  dream.  Mother  Land!  ’T  was  no  dream,  InnisfaiH 
Hope  dreams,  but  grief  dreams  not — the  grief  of  the  Gael ! 
From  Leix  and  Ikerrin  to  Donegal’s  shore 
Rolls  the  dirge  of  thy  last  and  thy  bravest — O’More! 


SONG. 


I. 

When  I was  young,  I said  to  Sorrow : 
Come  and  I will  play  with  thee.’^ 
He  is  near  me  now  all  day. 

And  at  night  returns  to  say: 

I will  come  again  to-morrow — 

I will  come  and  stay  with  thee.’’ 


8G0 


IRI^H  LITERATURE. 


II. 

Through  the  woods  we  walk  together; 
His  soft  footsteps  rustle  nigh  me; 

To  shield  an  unregarded  head 
He  hath  built  a winter  shed; 

And  all  night  in  rainy  weather 

I hear  his  gentle  breathings  by  me, 


SORROW. 

Count  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave, 

God’s  messenger  sent  down  to  thee;  do  thou 
With  courtesy  receive  him ; rise  and  bow ; 

And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold,  crave 
rermission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave; 

Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast : allow 
No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow, 

Or  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 
The  soul’s  marmoreal  calmness;  grief  should  be — 

Like  joy — majestic,  equable,  sedate. 

Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free; 

Strong  to  consume  small  troubles;  to  commend  ^ 

Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to  the  end. 


THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  CLANS. 

I go  to  knit  two  clans  together, 

Oui^  clan  and  this  clan  unseen  of  yore. 

Our  clan  fears  naught;  but  I go,  oh,  whither? 

This  day  I go  from  my  mother’s  door. 

Thou,  redbreast,  singest  the  old  song  over. 

Though  many  a time  hast  thou  sung  it  before; 
They  never  sent  thee  to  some  strange  new  lover 
To  sing  a new  song  by  my  mother’s  door. 

I stepped  from  my  little  room  down  by  the  ladder— 
The  ladder  that  never  so  shook  before; 

I was  sad  last  night,  to-day  I am  sadder. 

Because  I go  from  my  mother’s  door. 


AUBREY  T,  DE  VERE. 


861 


The  last  snow  melts  upon  bush  and  bramble, 

The  gold  bars  shine  on  the  forest’s  floor; 

Shake  not,  thou  leaf;  it  is  I must  tremble, 

Because  I go  from  my  mother’s  door. 

From  a Spanish  sailor  a dagger  I bought  me, 

I trailed  a rosebud  our  gray  bawn  o’er ; 

The  creed  and  the  letters  our  old  bard  taught  me; 

My  days  were  sweet  by  my  mother’s  door. 

My  little  white  goat,  that  with  raised  feet  huggest 
The  oak  stock,  thy  horns  in  the  ivy  frore; 

Could  I wrestle  like  thee — how  the  wreaths  thou  tuggest! — 

I never  would  move  from  my  mother’s  door. 

Oh,  weep  no  longer,  my  nurse  and  mother; 

My  foster-sister,  weep  not  so  sore ; 

You  cannot  come  with  me,  Ir,  my  brother — 

Alone  I go  from  my  mother’s  door. 

Farewell,  my  wolf-hound,  that  slew  MacOwing, 

As  he  caught  me  and  far  through  the  thickets  bore. 

My  heifer  Alb  in  the  green  vale  lowing. 

My  cygnet’s  nest  upon  Loma’s  shore. 

He  has  killed  ten  Chiefs,  this  Chief  that  plights  me. 

His  hand  is  like  that  of  the  giant  Balor; 

But  I fear  his  kiss,  and  his  beard  affrights  me. 

And  the  great  stone  dragon  above  his  door. 

Had  I daughters  nine,  with  me  they  should  tarry ; 

They  should  sing  old  songs ; they  should  dance  at  my  door. 
They  should  grind  at  the  quern,  no  need  to  marry ! 

Oh,  when  shall  this  marriage  day  be  o’er? 

Had  I buried,  like  Moirin,  three  fates  already, 

I might  say,  Three  husbands,  then  why  not  four? 

But  my  hand  is  cold,  and  my  foot  unsteady. 

Because  I never  was  married  before! 


FLOWERS  I WOULD  BRING. 

Flowers  I would  bring  if  flowers  could  make  thee  fairer, 
And  music,  if  the  Muse  were  dear  to  thee; 

(For  loving  these  would  make  thee  love  the  bearer) 

But  the  sweetest  songs  forget  their  melody, 


862 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


And  loveliest  flowers  would  but  conceal  the  wearer 
A rose  I marked,  and  might  have  plucked ; but  she 
Blushed  as  she  bent ; imploring  me  to  spare  her, 

Nor  spoil  her  beauty  by  such  rivalry. 

Alas ! and  with  what  gifts  shall  I pursue  thee, 

What  offerings  bring,  what  treasures  lay  before  thee 
When  earth  with  all  her  floral  train  doth  woo  thee. 
And  all  old  poets  and  old  songs  adore  thee; 

And  love  to  thee  is  naught ; from  passionate  mood 
Secured  by  joy’s  complacent  plenitude! 


SONG. 

Seek  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 
And  balmiest  bud. 

To  carve  her  name  while  yet ’t  is  dark 
Upon  the  wood ! 

The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 
And  wreaths  hard  won  : 

Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong  hands, 
Till  day  is  done. 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek’s  pale  roses, 

The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 
Her  soul  reposes ! 

Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man ! true  knight ! 

The  clash  of  arms 

Shall  more  prevail  than  whispered  tale. 

To  win  her  charms. 

The  warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love’s  name; 

The  love  that  lures  thee  from  that  fight 
Lures  thee  to  shame ; 

That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 
The  spirit  free, — 

That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 
Man-shaped  like  thee. 


1 


AUBREY  T.  DE  YE  RE. 
THE  LONG  DYING. 


863 


The  dying  tree  no  pang  sustains ; 

But,  by  degrees  relinquishing 
.Companionship  of  beams  and  rains, 
Forgets  the  balmy  breath  of  spring. 

From  off  th’  enringM  trunk  that  keeps 
His  annual  count  of  ages  gone, 

Th^  embrace  of  summer  slowly  slips; — 

Still  stands  the  giant  in  the  sun. 

His  myriad  lips,  that  sucked  of  old 
The  dewy  breasts  of  heaven,  are  dry; 
His  roots  remit  the  crag  and  mould; 

Yet  painless  is  his  latest  sigh. 

He  falls;  the  forests  round  him  roar; — 

Ere  long  on  quiet  bank  and  copse 
Untrembling  moonbeams  rest;  once  more 
The  startled  babe  his  head  down  drops. 

But  ah  for  one  who  never  drew 
From  age  to  age  a painless  breath ! 

'And  ah  the  old  wrong  ever  new ! 

And  ah  the  many-centuried  death! 


MICHAEL  DOHENY. 


(1805—1863.) 

Michael  Doheny  was  born  at  Brookhill,  County  Tipperary,  in 
1805.  With  very  little  schooling  he  went  to  London  and  studied 
law,  supporting  himself  as  a Parliamentary  reporter.  He  after- 
ward settled  in  Cashel  as  a barrister  and  became  prominent  as  a 
local  and  national  politician.  He  became  connected  with  the  Young 
Ireland  party  in  the  forties  and  was  a frequent  contributor  to  The 
Nation  over  the  signature  of  “Eiranach.” 

After  the  failure  of  the  insurrection  of  1848  a reward  of  £300 
($1,500)  was  on  his  head  for  some  time.  He  at  last  succeeded  in 
evading  the  police  and  escaped  to  New  York  in  1849,  where  he  be- 
came a lawyer  and  joined  John  Mahoney  in  founding  Fenianism. 
He  afterward  fought  in  the  Civil  War.  He  is  best  known  by  a 
small  prose  work,  ‘The  Felon’s  Track,’  published  after  his  death, 
and  a few  beautiful  poems.  He  died  April  1,  1863. 


A CUSHLA  GAL  MO  CHREE.i 

The  long,  long  wished-for  hour  has  come, 
Yet  come,  astor,  in  vain ; 

And  left  thee  but  the  wailing  hum 
Of  sorrow  and  of  pain ; 

My  light  of  life,  my  only  love ! 

Thy  portion,  sure,  must  be 

Man’s  scorn  below,  God’s  wrath  above — 

A enisle  geal  mo  chroidhe! 

I ’ve  given  for  thee  my  early  prime, 

And  manhood’s  teeming  years; 

I ’ve  blessed  thee  in  my  merriest  time. 

And  shed  with  thee  my  tears ; 

And,  mother,  though  thou  cast  away 
The  child  who ’d  die  for  thee. 

My  fondest  wishes  still  should  pray 
For  enisle  geal  mo  ehi'oidhe! 

For  thee  I ’ve  tracked  the  mountain’s  sides. 
And  slept  within  the  brake. 

More  lonely  than  the  swan  that  glides 
On  Lua’s  fairy  lake. 

1 A cushla  gal  mo  chree,  bright  vein  of  my  heart. 

864 


MICHAEL  DOHENY, 


865 


The  rich  have  spurned  me  from  their  door, 
Because  I M make  thee  free ; 

Yet  still  I love  thee  more  and  more, 

A cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe! 

1 ’ve  run  the  outlaw^s  wild  career, 

And  borne  his  load  of  ill ; 

'His  rocky  couch — his  dreamy  fear — 

With  fixed,  sustaining  will ; 

And  should  his  last  dark  chance  befall, 

Even  that  shall  welcome  be; 

In  death  I M love  thee  best  of  all, 

A cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe! 

’T  was  told  of  thee  the  world  around, 

’T  was  hoped  for  thee  by  all, 

That  with  one  gallant  sunward  bound 
Thou’dst  burst  long  ages’  thrall ; 

Thy  faith  was  tied,  alas ! and  those 
Who  periled  all  for  thee 

Were  cursed  and  branded  as  thy  foes, 

A cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe! 

What  fate  is  thine,  unhappy  Isle, 

When  even  the  trusted  few 

Would  pay  thee  back  with  hate  and  guile, 
When  most  they  should  be  true! 

’T  was  not  my  strength  or  spirit  quailed, 

Or  those  who’d  die  for  thee — 

Who  loved  thee  truly  have  not  failed, 

A cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe! 


EDWARD  DOWDEN. 

(1843 ) 

Edward  Dowden  was  born  in  Cork,  May  3,  1843,  where  he  re- 
ceived his  early  education.  He  entered  Trinity  College  in  1859.  In 
1867  he  became  professor  of  English  literature.  The  scholarship  of 
his  literary  work  has  won  him  many  honors.  In  1888  he  was  chosen 
President  of  the  English  Goethe  Society,  to  succeed  Professor  Muller. 
The  following  year  he  was  appointed  first  Taylorian  lecturer  in  the 
Taylor  Institute,  Oxford.  The  Royal  Irish  Academy  has  bestowed  i 
the  Cunningham  gold  medal  upon  him,  and  he  has  also  received 
the  honorary  degree  LL.D.  of  the  Universities  of  Edinburgh  and 
Princeton. 

Professor  Dowden  has  been  a frequent  contributor  of  critical 
essays  to  all  the  high-class  magazines — the  Contemporary ^ Fort- 
nightly, Westminster,  Fraser''s,  and  Cornhill.  His  first  book  was 
published  in  1875 — ‘ Shakespeare,  his  Mind  and  Art,  a Critical 
Study.’  This  is  a very  remarkable  contribution  to  the  literature  on 
the  great  English  dramatist,  and  has  already  taken  rank  among  the 
standard  works  on  the  subject.  It  is  now  in  its  fourth  edition,  and 
has  been  translated  into  German  and  Russian.  A volume  of 
‘ Poems  ’ appeared  in  1876,  and  has  passed  into  a second  edition. 
Of  his  poetry,  Mr.  W.  MacNeile  Dixon  says  in  ‘ A Treasury  of  Irish 
Poetry  ’ ; “ He  recalls  to  us  Marvell’s  fine  simplicity,  his  unfailing 
sense  for  the  beautiful,  his  pervading  spirituality,  his  touch  of  reso- 
lute aloofness  from  the  haste  and  fever  of  life,  his  glad  and  serious 
temper,  his  unaffected  charm  of  phrase  and  movement.  ” 

‘ Studies  in  Literature  ’ (1875)  contained  a number  of  suggestive 
criticisms  on  the  chief  literary  masters  of  our  time — the  most  re- 
markable perhaps  being  that  on  Geoi’ge  Eliot.  Mr.  Dowden  has, 
besides,  contributed  a Shakespeare  Primer  to  the  ‘ Literature  Prim- 
ers ’ edited  by  the  well-known  historian,  Mr.  J.  R.  Green,  and  he  was 
chosen  to  contribute  ‘ Southey  ’ to  the  series  of  ‘ English  Men  of  Let- 
ters,’under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  John  Morley.  In  addition  to  the 
books  above  mentioned  he  has  written  ‘ The  Life  of  Shelley,’  ‘ Trans- 
scripts and  Studies,’  ‘New  Studies  in  Literature,’  ‘The  French 
Revolution  and  English  Literature,’  ‘A  History  of  French  Litera- 
ture.’ He  has  edited  Shakespeare’s  ‘Sonnets,’  Southey’s  ‘Corre- 
spondence with  Caroline  Bowles,’  ‘The  Passionate  Pilgrim,’  ‘The 
Correspondence  of  Henry  Taylor,’  and  a collection  of  lyrical 
ballads. 

THE  INTERPRETATION  OF  LITERATURE. 

From  ‘Transcripts  and  Studies.’ 

The  happiest  moment  in  a critic^s  hours  of  study  is 
when,  seemingly  by  some  divination,  but  really  as  the  re- 

860 


EDWARD  DOWDEN. 


867' 


suit  of  patient  observation  and  thought,  he  lights  upon  the 
central  motive  of  a great  work.  Then,  of  a sudden,  order 
begins  to  form  itself  from  the  crowd  and  chaos  of  his  im- 
pressions and  ideas.  There  is  a moving  hither  and  thither, 
a grouping  or  co-ordinating  of  all  his  recent  experiences, 
which  goes  on  of  its  own  accord;  and  every  instant  his 
vision  becomes  clearer,  and  new  meanings  disclose  them- 
selves in  what  had  been  lifeless  and  unilluminated.  It 
seems  as  if  he  could  even  stand  by  the  artist’s  side  and 
co-operate  with  him  in  the  process  of  creating.  With  such 
a sense  of  joy  upon  him,  the  critic  will  think  it  no  hard 
task  to  follow  the  artist  to  the  sources  from  whence  he 
drew  his  material, — it  may  be  some  dull  chapter  in  an 
ancient  chronicle,  or  some  gross  tale  of  passion  by  an 
Italian  novelist, — and  he  will  stand  by  and  watch  with 
exquisite  pleasure  the  artist  handling  that  crude  material, 
and  refashioning  and  refining  it,  and  breathing  into  it  the 
breath  of  a higher  life.  Even  the  minutest  difference  of 
text  between  an  author’s  earlier  and  later  draft,  or  a first 
and  second  edition,  has  now  become  a point  not  for  dull 
commentatorship,  but  a point  of  life,  at  which  he  may  touch 
with  his  finger  the  pulse  of  the  creator  in  his  fervor  of 
creation. 

From  each  single  work  of  a great  author  we  advance  to 
his  total  work,  and  thence  to  the  man  himself, — to  the 
heart  and  brain  from  which  all  this  manifold  world  of 
wisdom  and  wit  and  passion  and  beauty  has  proceeded. 
Here  again,  before  we  address  ourselves  to  the  interpre- 
tation of  the  author’s  mind,  we  patiently  submit  ourselves 
to  a vast  series  of  impressions.  And  in  accordance  with 
Bacon’s  maxim  that  a prudent  interrogation  is  the  half 
of  knowledge,  it  is  right  to  provide  ourselves  with  a number 
of  well-considered  questions  which  we  may  address  to  our 
author.  Let  us  cross-examine  him  as  students  of  mental 
and  moral  science,  and  find  replies  in  his  written  words. 
Are  his  senses  vigorous  and  fine?  Does  he  see  color  as 
well  as  form?  Does  he  delight  in  all  that  appeals  to  the 
sense  of  hearing — the  voices  of  nature,  and  the  melody  and 
harmonies  of  the  art  of  man? 

Thus  Wordsworth,  exquisitely  organized  for  enjoying 
and  interpreting  all  natural  and,  if  we  may  so  say,  homeless 
and  primitive  sounds,  had  but  little  feeling  for  the  delights 


868 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


of  music.  Can  he  enrich  his  poetry  by  gifts  from  the  sense 
of  smell,  as  did  Keats;  or  is  his  nose  like  Wordsworth’s, 
an  idle  promontory  projecting  into  a desert  air?  Has  he 
like  Browning  a vigorous  pleasure  in  all  strenuous  muscu- 
lar movements ; or  does  he  like  Shelley  live  rapturously  in 
the  finest  nervous  thrills?  How  does  he  experience  and  in- 
terpret the  feeling  of  sex,  and  in  what  parts  of  his  entire 
nature  does  that  feeling  find  its  elevating  connections  and 
associations?  What  are  his  special  intellectual  powers? 
Is  his  intellect  combative  or  contemplative?  What  are  the 
laws  which  chiefiy  preside  over  the  associations  of  his 
ideas?  What  are  the  emotions  which  he  feels  most 
strongly?  and  how  do  his  emotions  coalesce  with  one  an- 
other? Wonder,  terror,  awe,  love,  grief,  hope,  despond- 
ency, the  benevolent  affections,  admiration,  the  religious 
sentiment,  the  moral  sentiment,  the  emotion  of  power, 
irascible  emotion,  ideal  emotion — how  do  these  make  them- 
selves felt  in  and  through  his  writings?  What  is  his  feel- 
ing for  the  beautiful,  the  sublime,  the  ludicrous?  Is  he  of 
weak  or  vigorous  will?  In  the  conflict  of  motives,  which 
class  of  motives  with  him  is  likely  to  predominate?  Is  he 
framed  to  believe  or  framed  to  doubt?  Is  he  prudent,  just, 
temperate,  or  the  reverse  of  these?  These  and  such-like 
questions  are  not  to  be  crudely  and  formally  proposed,  but 
are  to  be  used  with  tact;  nor  should  the  critic  press  for 
hard  and  definite  answers,  but  know  how  skillfully  to 
glean  its  meaning  from  an  evasion.  He  is  a dull  cross- 
examiner who  will  invariably  follow  the  scheme  which  he 
has  thought  out  and  prepared  beforehand,  and  who  cannot 
vary  his  questions  to  surprise  or  beguile  the  truth  from 
an  unwilling  witness.  But  the  tact  which  comes  from  nat- 
ural gift  and  from  experience  may  be  well  supported  by 
something  of  method, — method  well  hidden  away  from  the 
surface  and  from  sight. 

This  may  be  termed  the  psychological  method  of  study. 
But  we  may  also  follow  a more  objective  method.  Taking 
the  chief  themes  with  which  literature  and  art  are  conver- 
sant— God,  external  nature,  humanity — we  may  inquire 
how  our  author  has  dealt  with  each  of  these.  What  is  his 
theology,  or  his  philosophy  of  the  universe?  By  which  we 
mean  no  abstract  creed  or  doctrine,  but  the  tides  and  cur- 
rents of  feeling  and  of  faith,  as  well  as  the  tendencies  and 


EDWARD  DOWDEN. 


869 


conclusions  of  the  intellect.  Under  what  aspect  has  this 
goodly  frame  of  things,  in  whose  midst  we  are,  revealed 
itself  to  him?  How  has  he  regarded  and  interpreted  the 
life  of  man? 

Under  each  of  these  great  themes  a multitude  of  subor- 
dinate topics  are  included.  And  alike  in  this  and  in  what 
we  have  termed  the  psychological  method  of  study,  we 
shall  gain  double  results  if  we  examine  a writer^s  works 
in  the  order  of  their  chronology,  and  thus  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  growth  and  development  of  his  powers, 
and  the  widening  and  deepening  of  his  relations  with  man, 
with  external  nature,  and  with  that  Supreme  Power,  un- 
known yet  well  known,  of  which  nature  and  man  are  the 
manifestation.  As  to  the  study  of  an  artistes  technical 
qualities,  this,  by  virtue  of  the  fact  that  he  is  an  artist,  is  of 
capital  importance;  and  it  may  often  be  associated  with 
the  study  of  that  which  his  technique  is  employed  to  ex- 
press and  render — the  characteristics  of  his  mind,  and  of 
the  vision  which  he  has  attained  of  the  external  universe, 
of  humanity,  and  of  God.  Of  all  our  study,  the  last  end 
and  aim  should  be  to  ascertain  how  a great  writer  or  artist 
has  served  the  life  of  man ; to  ascertain  this,  to  bring  home 
to  ourselves  as  large  a portion  as  may  be  of  the  gain  where- 
with he  has  enriched  human  life,  and  to  render  access  to 
that  store  of  wisdom,  passion,  and  power,  easier  and  surer 
for  others. 


ENGLAND  IN  SHAKESPEAKE’S  YOUTH. 

In  the  closing  years  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  life 
of  England  ran  high.  The  revival  of  learning  had  en- 
riched the  national  mind  with  a store  of  new  ideas  and 
images;  the  reformation  of  religion  had  been  accomplished, 
and  its  fruits  were  now  secure;  three  conspiracies  against 
the  Queen’s  life  had  recently  been  foiled,  and  her  rival, 
the  Queen  of  Scots,  had  perished  on  the  scaffold;  the  huge 
attempt  of  Spain  against  the  independence  of  England 
had  been  defeated  b}^  the  gallantry  of  English  seamen, 
aided  by  the  winds  of  heaven.  English  adventurers  were 
exploring  untraveled  lands  and  distant  oceans;  English 
citizens  were  growing  in  wealth  and  importance;  the  far- 


870 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


mers  made  the  soil  give  up  twice  its  former  yield;  the 
nobility,  however  fierce  their  private  feuds  and  rivalries 
might  be,  gathered  around  the  Queen  as  their  center. 

It  was  felt  that  England  was  a power  in  the  continent  of 
Europe.  Men  were  in  a temper  to  think  human  life,  with 
its  action  and  its  passions,  a very  important  and  interest- 
ing thing.  They  did  not  turn  away  from  this  world,  and 
despise  it  in  comparison  with  a heavenly  country,  as  did 
many  of  the  finest  souls  in  the  Middle  Ages;  they  did  not, 
like  the  writers  of  the  age  of  Queen  Anne,  care  only  for 

the  town  ; it  was  man  they  cared  for,  and  the  whole 
of  manhood — its  good  and  evil,  its  greatness  and  gro- 
tesqueness, its  laughter  and  its  tears. 

When  men  cared  thus  about  human  life,  their  imagina- 
tion craved  living  pictures  and  visions  of  it.  They  liked 
to  represent  to  themselves  men  and  women  in  all  pas- 
sionate and  mirthful  aspects  and  circumstances  of  life. 
Sculpture  which  the  Greeks  so  loved  would  not  have  sat- 
isfied them,  for  it  is  too  simple  and  too  calm;  music 
would  not  have  been  sufficient,  for  it  is  too  purely  an  ex- 
pression of  feelings,  and  says  too  little  about  actions  and 
events.  The  art  which  suited  the  temper  of  their  imagina- 
tion was  the  drama.  In  the  drama  they  saw  men  and 
women,  alive  in  action,  in  suffering,  changing  forever 
from  mood  to  mood,  from  attitude  to  attitude;  they  saw 
these  men  and  women  solitary,  conversing  with  their 
OAvn  hearts — in  pairs  and  in  groups,  acting  one  upon 
another;  in  multitudes,  swayed  hither  and  thither  by  their 
leaders. 


THE  HUMOR  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

From  ‘ Shakespeare  : a Critical  Study  of  His  Mind  and  Art.’ 

A study  of  Shakespeare  which  fails  to  take  account  of 
Shakespeare’s  humor  must  remain  essentially  incomplete. 
The  character  and  spiritual  history  of  a man  who  is  en- 
dowed with  a capacity  for  humorous  appreciation  of  the 
world  must  differ  throughout,  and  in  every  particular, 
from  that  of  the  man  whose  moral  nature  has  never 
rippled  over  with  genial  laughter.  At  whatever  final  issue 


EDWARD  DOW  DEN. 


871 


Shakespeare  arrived  after  long  spiritual  travail  as  to 
the  attainment  of  his  life,  that  precise  issue,  rather  than 
another,  was  arrived  at  in  part  by  virtue  of  the  fact  of 
Shakespeare^s  humor.  In  the  composition  of  forces  which 
determined  the  orbit  traversed  by  the  mind  of  the  poet, 
this  must  be  allowed  for  as  a force  among  others,  in  im- 
portance not  the  least,  and  efficient  at  all  times  even  when 
little  apparent. 

A man  whose  visage  holds  one  stern  intent’’  from  day 
to  day,  and  whose  joy  becomes  at  times  almost  a super- 
natural rapture,  may  descend  through  circles  of  hell  to  the 
narrowest  and  the  lowest;  he  may  mount  from  sphere  to 
sphere  of  Paradise  until  he  stands  within  the  light  of  the 
Divine  Majesty;  but  he  will  hardly  succeed  in  presenting 
us  with  an  adequate  image  of  life  as  it  is  on  this  earth  of 
ours,  in  its  oceanic  amplitude  and  variety.  A few  men  of 
genius  there  have  been,  who  with  vision  penetrative  as 
lightning  have  gazed  as  it  were  through  life,  at  some  eter- 
nal significances  of  which  life  is  the  symbol.  Intent  upon 
its  sacred  meaning,  they  have  had  no  eye  to  note  the  forms 
of  the  grotesque  hieroglyph  of  human  existence.  Such  men 
are  not  framed  for  laughter.  To  this  little  group  the 
creator  of  Falstaff,  of  Bottom,  and  of  Touchstone  does  not 
belong. 

Shakespeare,  who  saw  life  more  widely  and  wisely  than 
any  other  of  the  seers,  could  laugh.  That  is  a comfortable 
fact  to  bear  in  mind;  a fact  which  serves  to  rescue  us  from 
the  domination  of  intense  and  narrow  natures,  who  claim 
authority  by  virtue  of  their  grasp  of  one-half  of  the 
realities  of  our  existence  and  their  denial  of  the  rest. 
Shakespeare  could  laugh.  But  we  must  go  on  to  ask, 
What  did  he  laugh  at?  and  what  was  the  manner  of  his 
laughter?  ” There  are  as  many  modes  of  laughter  as  there 
are  facets  of  the  common  soul  of  humanity,  to  reflect  the 
humorous  appearances  of  the  world.  Hogarth,  in  one  of 
his  pieces  of  coarse  yet  subtile  engraving,  has  presented  a 
group  of  occupants  of  the  pit  of  a theater,  sketched  during 
the  performance  of  some  broad  comedy  or  farce.  What 
proceeds  upon  the  stage  is  invisible  and  undiscoverable, 
save  as  we  catch  its  reflection  on  the  faces  of  the  spectators, 
in  the  same  way  that  we  infer  a sunset  from  the  evening 
flame  upon  windows  that  front  the  west. 


872 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Each  laughing  face  in  Hogarth^s  print  exhibits  a dif- 
ferent mode  or  a different  stage  of  the  risible  paroxysm. 
There  is  the  habitual  enjoyer  of  the  broad  comic,  aban- 
doned to  his  mirth,  which  is  open  and  unashamed;  mirth 
Avhich  he  is  evidently  a match  for,  and  able  to  sustain. 
By  his  side  is  a companion  female  portrait — a woman 
with  head  thrown  back  to  ease  the  violence  of  the  guffaw; 
all  her  loose  redundant  flesh  is  tickled  into  an  orgasm  of 
merriment;  she  is  fairly  overcome.  On  the  other  side  sits 
the  spectator  who  has  passed  the  climax  of  his  laughter; 
he  wipes  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  is  on  the  way  to  regain 
an  insecure  and  temporary  composure.  Below  appears  a 
girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty,  whose  vacancy  of  intellect  is 
captured  and  occupied  by  the  innocuous  folly  still  in  pro- 
gress; she  gazes  on  expectantly,  assured  that  a new  blos- 
som of  the  wonder  of  absurdity  is  about  to  display  itself. 
Her  father,  a man  who  does  not  often  surrender  himself 
to  an  indecent  convulsion,  leans  his  face  upon  his  hand  and 
Avith  the  other  steadies  himself  by  grasping  one  of  the  iron 
spikes  that  inclose  the  orchestra.  In  the  right  corner  sits 
the  humorist,  whose  eyes,  around  which  the  wrinkles  gath- 
er, are  half  closed,  while  he  already  goes  over  the  jest 
a second  time  in  his  imagination.  At  the  opposite  side 
an  elderly  Avoman  is  seen,  past  the  period  when  animal 
violences  are  possible,  laughing  because  she  knows  there 
is  something  to  laugh  at,  though  she  is  too  dull-witted  to 
knoAv  precisely  what.  One  spectator,  as  we  guess  from  his 
introAWted  air,  is  laughing  to  think  what  somebody  else 
would  think  of  this.  Finally,  the  thin-lipped,  perk-nosed 
person  of  refinement  looks  aside,  and  by  his  critical  in- 
difference condemns  the  broad,  injudicious  mirth  of  the 
company. 

All  these  laughers  of  Hogarth  are  very  commonplace, 
and  some  are  very  vulgar  persons;  one  trivial,  ludicrous 
spectacle  is  the  occasion  of  their  mirth.  When  from  such 
laughter  as  this  AA^e  turn  to  the  laughter  of  men  of  genius, 
who  gaze  at  the  total  play  of  the  world^s  life ; and  when  we 
listen  to  this,  as  Avith  the  ages  it  goes  on  gathering  and 
SAvelling,  our  sense  of  hearing  is  enveloped  and  almost 
annihilated  by  the  chorus  of  mock  and  jest,  of  antic 
and  buffoonery,  of  tender  mirth  and  indignant  satire,  of 
monstrous  burlesque  and  sly  absurdity,  of  desperate  mis- 


EDWARD  DOW  DEN, 


873 


anthropic  derision  and  genial  affectionate  caressing  of 
human  imperfection  and  human  folly.  We  hear  from 
behind  the  mask  the  enormous  laughter  of  Aristophanes, 
ascending  peal  above  peal  until  it  passes  into  jubilant 
ecstasy,  or  from  the  uproar  springs  some  exquisite  lyric 
strain.  We  hear  laughter.of  passionate  indignation  from 
Juvenal,  the  indignation  of  the  ancient  and  free  soul  of 
the  dead  republics.’^ 

And  there  is  Rabelais,  with  his  huge  buffoonery,  and  the 
earnest  eyes  intent  on  freedom,  which  look  out  at  us  in 
the  midst  of  the  zany’s  tumblings  and  indecencies.  And 
Cervantes,  with  his  refined  Castilian  air  and  deep  melan- 
choly mirth,  at  odds  with  the  enthusiasm  which  is  dearest 
to  his  soul.  And  Moliere,  with  his  laughter  of  unerring 
good  sense,  undeluded  by  fashion  or  vanity  or  folly  or 
hypocrisy,  and  brightly  mocking  these  into  modesty.  And 
Milton,  with  his  fierce  objurgatory  laughter, — Elijah-like 
insult  against  the  enemies  of  freedom  and  of  England. 
And  Voltaire,  with  his  quick  intellectual  scorn  and  eager 
malice  of  the  brain.  And  there  is  the  urbane  and  amiable 
play  of  Addison’s  invention,  not  capable  of  large  achieve- 
ment, but  stirring  the  corners  of  the  mouth  with  a humane 
smile, — gracious  gayety  for  the  breakfast-tables  of  Eng- 
land. And  Fielding’s  careless  mastery  of  the  whole  broad 
common  field  of  mirth.  And  Sterne’s  exquisite  curiosity 
of  oddness,  his  subtile  extravagances  and  humors  prepense. 
And  there  is  the  tragic  laughter  of  Swift,  which  announces 
the  extinction  of  reason,  and  loss  beyond  recovery  of  human 
faith  and  charity  and  hope.  How  in  this  chorus  of  laugh- 
ters, joyous  and  terrible,  is  the  laughter  of  Shakespeare 
distinguishable  ? 

In  the  first  place,  the  humor  of  Shakespeare,  like  his  to- 
tal genius,  is  many-sided.  He  does  not  pledge  himself  as 
dramatist  to  any  one  view  of  human  life.  If  we  open  a 
novel  by  Cliarles  Dickens,  we  feel  assured  beforehand  that 
we  are  condemned  to  an  exuberance  of  philanthropy;  we 
know  how  the  writer  will  insist  that  we  must  all  be  good 
friends,  all  be  men  and  brothers,  intoxicated  with  the  de- 
light of  one  another’s  presence ; we  expect  him  to  hold  out 
the  right  hand  of  fellowship  to  man,  woman,  and  child; 
we  are  prepared  for  the  bacchanalia  of  benevolence.  The 
lesson  we  have  to  learn  from  this  teacher  is,  that  with  the 


874 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


exception  of  a few  inevitable  and  incredible  monsters  of 
cruelty,  every  man  naturally  engendered  of  the  offspring  of 
Adam  is  of  liis  own  nature  inclined  to  every  amiable  virtue. 
Shakespeare  abounds  in  kindly  mirth:  he  receives  an  ex- 
quisite pleasure  from  the  alert  Avit  and  bright  good  sense  of 
^ Kosalind;  he  can  dandle  a fool  as  tenderly  as  any  nurse 
qualified  to  take  a baby  from  the  birth  can  deal  with  her 
charge.  But  Shakespeare  is  not  pledged  to  deep-dyed  ultra- 
amiability. With  Jacques,  he  can  rail  at  the  world  while 
remaining  curiously  aloof  from  all  deep  concern  about  its 
interests,  this  way  or  that.  With  Timon  he  can  turn  upon 
the  world  with  a rage  no  less  than  that  of  Swift,  and  dis- 
cover in  man  and  woman  a creature  as  abominable  as  the 
Yahoo.  In  other  words,  the  humor  of  Shakespeare,  like  his 
total  genius,  is  dramatic. 

Then  again,  although  Shakespeare  laughs  incompara- 
bly, mere  laughter  wearies  him.  The  only  play  of  Shake- 
speare’s, out  of  nearly  forty,  which  is  farcical, — ^ The 
Comedy  of  Errors,’ — Avas  written  in  the  poet’s  earliest 
period  of  authorship,  and  was  formed  upon  the  suggestion 
of  a preceding  piece.  It  has  been  observed  with  truth  by 
Gervinus  that  the  farcical  incidents  of  this  play  have  been 
connected  by  Shakespeare  Avith  a tragic  background,  Avhich 
is  probably  his  OAvn  inA^ention.  With  beautj^,  or  with  pa- 
thos, or  Avith  thought,  Shakespeare  can  mingle  his  mirth ; 
and  then  he  is  happy,  and  knows  how  to  deal  with  play 
of  Avit  or  humorous  characterization;  but  an  entirely  comic 
subject  someAvhat  disconcerts  the  poet.  On  this  ground, 
if  no  other  Avere  forthcoming,  it  might  be  suspected  that 
‘ The  Taming  of  the  ShreAV  ’ was  not  altogether  the  Avork 
of  Shakespeare’s  hand.  The  secondary  intrigues  and 
minor  incidents  Avere  of  little  interest  to  the  poet.  But  in 
the  buo}^ant  force  of  Petruchio’s  character,  in  his  sub- 
duing tempest  of  high  spirits,  and  in  the  person  of  the 
foiled  revoltress  against  the  law  of  sex,  who  carries  into 
her  wifely  loyalty  the  same  energy  Avhich  she  had  shown 
in  her  virgin  sauvagerie , there  Avere  elements  of  human 
character  in  which  the  imagination  of  the  poet  took  delight. 

Unless  it  be  its  own  excess,  however,  Shakespeare’s 
laughter  seems  to  fear  nothing.  It  does  not,  when  it  has 
once  arrived  at  its  full  development,  fear  enthusiasm,  or 
passion,  or  tragic  intensity;  nor  do  these  fear  it.  The  tra- 


EDWARD  DOWDEN, 


873 


ditions  of  the  English  drama  had  favored  the  juxtaposi- 
tion of  the  serious  and  comic:  but  it  was  reserved  for 
Shakespeare  to  make  each  a part  of  the  other;  to  inter- 
penetrate tragedy  with  comedy,  and  comedy  with  tragic 
earnestness. 


SHAKESPEARE’S  PORTRAITURE  OP  WOMEN. 

From  ‘ Transcripts  and  Studies.’ 

Of  all  the  daughters  of  his  imagination,  which  did 
Shakespeare  love  the  best?  Perhaps  we  shall  not  err  if  we 
say  one  of  the  latest  born  of  them  all, — our  English 
Imogen.  And  what  most  clearly  shows  us  how  Shake- 
speare loved  Imogen  is  this — he  has  given  her  faults,  and 
has  made  them  exquisite,  so  that  we  love  her  better  for 
their  sake.  No  one  has  so'quick  and  keen  a sensibility  to 
whatever  pains  and  to  whatever  gladdens  as  she.  To  her 
a word  is  a blow ; and  as  she  is  quick  in  her  sensibility,  so 
she  is  quick  in  her  perceptions,  piercing  at  once  through  the 
Queen’s  false  show  of  friendship;  quick  in  her  contempt 
for  what  is  unworthy,  as  for  all  professions  of  love  from 
the  clown-prince,  Cloten ; quick  in  her  resentment,  as 
when  she  discovers  the  unjust  suspicions  of  Posthumus. 
Wronged  she  is  indeed  by  her  husband,  but  in  her  haste 
she  too  grows  unjust ; yet  he  is  dearer  to  us  for  the  sake  of 
this  injustice,  proceeding  as  it  does  from  the  sensitiveness 
of  her  love.  It  is  she,  to  whom  a word  is  a blow,  who 
actually  receives  a buffet  from  her  husband’s  hand;  but 
for  Imogen  it  is  a blessed  stroke,  since  it  is  the  evidence 
of  his  loyalty  and  zeal  on  her  behalf.  In  a moment  he  is 
forgiven,  and  her  arms  are  round  his  neck. 

Shakespeare  made  so  many  perfect  women  unhappy  that 
he  owes  us  some  amende.  And  he  has  made  that  amende 
by  letting  us  see  one  perfect  woman  supremely  happy. 
Shall  our  last  glance  at  Shakespeare’s  plays  show  us 
Florizel  at  the  rustic  merry-making,  receiving  blossoms 
from  the  hands  of  Perdita?  or  Ferdinand  and  Miranda 
playing  chess  in  Prospero’s  cave,  and  winning  one  a king 
and  one  a queen,  while  the  happy  fathers  gaze  in  from 


876 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


the  entrance  of  the  cave?  We  can  see  a more  delightful 
sight  than  these — Imogen  with  her  arms  around  the  neck 
of  Posthumus,  while  she  puts  an  edge  upon  her  joj  by  the 
playful  challenge  and  mock  reproach — 

“ Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you  ? 

Think  that  you  are  upon  the  rock,  and  now 
Throw  me  again  ; 

and  he  responds — 

“ Hang  there  like  a fruit,  my  soul, 

Till  the  tree  die.” 

We  shall  find  in  all  Shakespeare  no  more  blissful  crea- 
tures than  these  two. 


ABOARD  THE  ^^SEA-SWALLOW.” 

The  gloom  of  the  sea-fronting  cliffs 
Lay  on  the  water,  violet-dark; 

The  pennon  drooped,  the  sail  fell  in, 

And  slowly  moved  our  bark. 

A golden  day ; the  summer  dreamed 
In  heaven  and  on  the  whispering  sea, 

Within  our  hearts  the  summer  dreamed; 
The  hours  had  ceased  to  be. 

Then  rose  the  girls  with  bonnets  loosed, 
And  shining  tresses  lightly  blown, 

Alice  and  Adela,  and  sang 
A song  of  Mendelssohn. 

Oh ! sweet  and  sad  and  wildly  clear, 

Through  summer  air  it  sinks  and  swells, 

Wild  with  a measureless  desire 
And  sad  with  all  farewells. 


OASIS. 

Let  them  go  by — the  heats,  the  doubts,  the  strife; 

I can  sit  here  and  care  not  for  them  now. 
Dreaming  beside  the  glimmering  wave  of  life 
Once  more — I know  not  how. 


EDWARD  DOWDEN, 


877 


There  is  a murmur  in  my  heart;  I hear 

Faint — oh!  so  faint — some  air  I used  to  sing; 
It  stirs  my  sense;  and  odors  dim  and  dear 
The  meadow-breezes  bring. 

Just  this  way  did  the  quiet  twilights  fade 
Over  the  fields  and  happy  homes  of  men, 

While  one  bird  sang  as  now,  piercing  the  shade, 
Long  since — I know  not  when. 


LEONARDO’S  MONNA  LISA.”i 

Make  thyself  known,  Sibyl,  or  let  despair 
Of  knowing  thee  be  absolute:  I wait 
Hour-long  and  waste  a soul.  What  word  of  fate 
Hides  ’twixt  the  lips  which  smile  and  still  forbear? 
Secret  perfection  1 Mystery  too  fair ! 

Tangle  the  sense  no  more,  lest  I should  hate 
The  delicate  tyranny,  the  inviolate 
Poise  of  thy  folded  hands,  the  fallen  hair. 

Nay,  nay, — I wrong  thee  with  rough  words;  still  be 
Serene,  victorious,  inaccessible; 

Still  smile  but  speak  not;  lightest  irony 
Lurk  ever  ’neath  thy  eyelids’  shadow ; still 
O’ertop  our  knowledge;  Sphinx  of  Italy, 

Allure  us  and  reject  us  at  thy  will ! 

J This  famous  painting,  sometimes  called  La  Gioconda,  was  bought  by 
Francis  I.  for  four  thousand  gold  florins,  and  is  now  one  of  the  glories  of 
the  Louvre.  In  Madonna  Lisa  the  artist  seems  to  have  found  a sitter 
whose  features  possessed  in  a singular  degree  the  intellectual  charm  in 
which  he  delighted,  and  in  whose  smile  was  realized  that  inward,  haunt- 
ing, mysterious  expression  which  had  been  his  ideal.  It  is  said  that  he 
worked  at  her  portrait  during  some  portion  of  four  successive  years,  caus- 
ing music  to  be  plaved  during  the  sittings,  that  the  rapt  expression  might 
not  fade  from  off  ner  countenance. 


BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING. 


(1823—1863.) 

Bartholomew  Dowling  was  born  in  Listowel,  County  Kerry, 
in  1823.  He  was  taken  to  Canada  by  his  parents  when  a boy 
and  was  partly  educated  there.  He  returned  to  Ireland  on  the 
death  of  his  father  and  became  clerk  to  the  treasurer  of  the  Cor- 
poration of  Limerick. 

In  1857  he  came  to  America  and  engaged  in  mining,  farming,  and 
journalism.  He  was  editor  of  The  San  Francisco  Monitor  when 
he  died  in  1863.  He  contributed  to  The  Natio7i  over  the  signature 
of  “ The  Southern.”  He  was  a good  linguist  and  a facile  writer. 
He  is  best  known  by  his  lyric  ‘ The  Brigade  at  Fontenoy.’ 

THE  BRIGADE  AT  FONTENOY. 

(May  11,  1745.) 

By  our  camp-fires  rose  a murmur, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

And  the  tread  of  many  footsteps 
Spoke  the  advent  of  the  fray ; 

And,  as  we  took  our  places, 

Few  and  stern  were  our  words. 

While  some  were  tightening  horse-girths 
And  some  were  girding  swords. 

The  trumpet  blast  has  sounded 
Our  footmen  to  array — 

The  willing  steed  has  bounded, 

Impatient  for  the  fray — ■ 

The  green  flag  is  unfolded, 

While  rose  the  cry  of  joy — 

Heaven  speed  dear  Ireland’s  banner 
To-day  at  Fontenoy ! ” 

We  looked  upon  that  banner. 

And  the  memory  arose. 

Of  our  homes  and  perished  kindred 
Where  the  Lee  or  Shannon  flows ; 

We  looked  upon  that  banner. 

And  we  swore  to  God  on  high 
To  smite  to-day  the  Saxon’s  might— 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

878 


BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING. 


879 


Loud  swells  the  charging  trumpet — 

’T  is  a voice  from  our  own  land — 

God  of  battles  I God  of  vengeance ! 

Guide  to-day  the  patriot’s  brand ! 

There  are  stains  to  wash  away, 

There  are  memories  to  destroy, 

In  the  best  blood  of  the  Briton 
To-day  at  Fontenoy. 

Plunge  deep  the  fiery  rowels 
In  a thousand  reeking  flanks — 

Down,  chivalry  of  Ireland, 

Down  on  the  British  ranks! 

Now  shall  their  serried  columns 
Beneath  our  sabers  reel — 

Through  their  ranks,  then,  with  the  war-horse 
Through  their  bosoms  with  the  steel. 

iWith  one  shout  for  good  King  Louis 
And  the  fair  land  of  the  vine. 

Like  the  wrathful  Alpine  tempest 
We  swept  upon  their  line — 

Then  ran  along  the  battle-field 
Triumphant  our  hurrah. 

And  we  smote  them  down,  still  cheering, 

‘‘Erin,  slangthagal  go  hragh!”^ 

As  prized  as  is  the  blessing 
From  an  agM  father’s  lip — 

As  welcome  as  the  haven 

To  the  tempest-driven  ship — 

As  dear  as  to  the  lover 

The  smile  of  gentle  maid — 

Is  this  day  of  long-sought  vengeance 
To  the  swords  of  the  Brigade. 

See  their  shattered  forces  flying, 

A broken,  routed  line — 

See,  England,  what  brave  laurels 
For  your  brow  to-day  we  twine. 

Oh,  thrice  blest  the  hour  that  witnessed 
The  Briton  turn  to  flee 
From  the  chivalry  of  Erin, 

And  France’s  fleur-de-lis. 

^ Erin  . . . hragh,  Erin,  your  bright  health  forever. 


^0 


IRIBH  LITERATURE. 


As  we  lay  beside  our  camp  fires, 
When  the  sun  had  passed  away, 
And  thought  upt>n  our  brethren 
That  had  perished  in  the  fray — 
We  prayed  to  God  to  grant  us, 
And  then  we  M die  with  joy, 
One  day  upon  our  own  dear  land 
Like  this  of  Fontenoy. 


RICHARD  DOWLING. 
(1846—1898.) 


Richard  Dowling  was  born  in  Clonmel,  June  3,  1846.  He  was 
educated  in  Clonmel,  Waterford,  and  Limerick.  He  was  intended 
for  the  legal  profession,  but  drifted  into  journalism,  joining  the 
staff  of  the  Dublin  Nation.  He  then  edited  a comic  periodical — 
Zozimus — to  which  he  contributed  a number  of  humorous  essays  ; 
and  afterward  he  was  the  chief  spirit  in  another  entitled  Ireland's 
Eye.  In  1874  he  went  to  London  and  became  a contributor  to  The 
Illustrated  Sporting  and  Dramatic  News.  Among  other  sketches, 
he  published  in  that  journal  ‘Mr.  Andrew  O’Rourke’s  Ramblings.’ 
He  started  and  edited  Yorick^  a comic  paper  which  had  a brief  ex- 
istence of  six  months,  but  it  was  not  till  1879  that  Dowling  may  be 
said  to  have  had  his  first  great  success.  In  that  year  Messrs.  Tins- 
ley Brothers  published  ‘The  Mystery  of  Killard.’  This  work  was 
written  in  1875-76,  but  the  author  sought  then  in  vain  for  a pub- 
lisher. The  central  idea  of  the  work — the  abnormal  nature  of  a 
deaf-mute,  which  leads  him  to  hate  his  own  child  because  the  child 
can  hear  and  speak — is  one  of  the  most  original  in  literature,  and 
there  is  an  atmosphere  of  weirdness  about  the  whole  story  which 
deeply  impresses  the  imagination. 

Mr.  Dowling  was  the  author  of  many  novels,  plays,  poems,  etc., 
but  there  is  perhaps  nothing  by  which  he  is  better  remembered  than 
by  the  book  of  essays,  ‘ On  Babies  and  Ladders,’  which  is  full 
of  quaint  humor  and  fancy. 


A GUIDE  TO  -IGNORANCE. 

From  ‘ Ignorant  Essays.’ 

As  a boy  I was  averse  from  study;  and  since  I have 
grown  to  manhood  I have  acquired  so  little  substantive  in- 
formation that  I could  write  down  in  a bold  hand  on  one 
page  of  this  book  every  single  fact,  outside  facts  of  per- 
sonal experience,  of  which  I am  possessed. 

I know  that  the  Norman  invasion  occurred  in  1066,  and 
the  Great  Fire  in  1666.  I know  that  gunpowder  is  com- 
posed of  saltpeter,  sulphur,  and  charcoal,  and  sausages  of 
minced  meat  and  bread  under  the  name  of  Tommy.  I am 
aware  Milton  and  Shakespeare  were  poets,  and  that  needle- 
grinders  are  short  lived.  I know  that  the  primest  brands  of 
three-shilling  champagnes  are  made  in  London.  I can 
give  the  Latin  for  seven  words,  and  the  French  for  four. 

881  5 — Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


882 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


I can  repeat  the  multiplication  table  (with  the  pence)  up 
to  six  times.  I know  the  mere  names  of  a number  of  people 
and  things;  but,  as  far  as  clear  and  definite  information 
goes,  I don’t  believe  I could  double  the  above  brief  list. 
I am,  I think,  therefore,  warranted  in  concluding  that  few 
men  can  have  a more  close  or  exhaustive  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  ignorance.  If  you  want  learning  at  sec- 
ond hand  you  must  go  to  the  learned : if  you  want  ignor- 
ance at  first  hand  you  cannot  possibly  do  better  than  come 
to  me. 

In  the  first  place  let  us  consider  the  Injury  of  Knowl- 
edge.” How  much  better  otf  the  king  would  be  if  he  had 
no  knowledge!  Suppose  his  mental  ken  had  never  been 
directed  to  any  period  before  the  dawn  of  his  own  memory, 
he  would  have  no  disquieting  thoughts  of  the  trouble  into 
which  Charles  I.  or  Richard  II.  drifted.  He  would  be  filled 
with  no  envy  of  the  good  old  King  John,  who,  from  four 
or  five  ounces  of  iron  in  the  form  of  thumb-screws,  and  a 
few  hundredweight  of  rich  Jew,  filled  up  the  royal  pockets 
as  often  as  they  showed  any  signs  of  growing  empty.  And, 
above  all,  he  would  be  spared  the  misery  of  committing 
dates  to  memory.  How  it  must  limit  the  happiness  of  a 
constitutional  sovereign  to  know  anything  about  the  con- 
stitution ! Why  should  he  be  burdened  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  rights  and  prerogatives? 

Would  he  not  be  much  happier  if  he  might  smoke  hiii 
cigar  in  his  garden  without  the  fear  of  the  Speaker  or  the 
Lord  Chancellor  before  his  eyes?  The  Commons  want 
their  Speaker,  the  Lords  want  their  Lord  Chancellor — let 
them  have  them.  The  king  wants  neither.  Why  should  he 
be  troubled  with  any  knowledge  of  either?  Although  he  is 
a king  is  he  not  a man  and  a brother  also?  Why  should 
he  be  worried  out  of  his  life  with  reasons  for  all  he  does? 
The  king  feels  he  can  do  no  wrong.  That  ought  to  be 
enough  for  him.  Most  men  believe  the  same  thing  of 
themselves,  but  few  others  share  the  faith.  The  king  can 
do  no  wrong,  then  in  mercy’s  name  let  the  man  alone.  Sup- 
pose it  is  a part  of  my  duty  to  look  out  of  the  oriel  window 
at  dawn,  noon,  and  sunset,  why  should  I be  bored  with 
cause,  reason,  and  precedent  for  this?  Let  me  look  out 
of  window  if  it  is  my  duty  to  do  so;  but,  before  and  after 
looking  out  of  the  window,  let  me  enjoy  my  life. 


RICHARD  DOWLING. 


883 


Take  the  statesman.  How  knowledge  must  hamper  him ! 
He  is  absolutely  precluded  from  acting  with  decision  by 
the  consciousness  of  the  difficulties  which  lay  in  the  path 
of  his  predecessors.  He  has  to  make  up  his  subject,  to  get 
facts  and  figures  from  his  subordinates  and  others.  He 
has  to  arrange  the  party  maneuvers  before  he  launches  his 
scheme,  by  which  time  all  the  energy  is  gone  out  of  him, 
and  he  has  not  half  as  much  faith  in  his  bill  as  if  he  had 
never  looked  at  the  pros  and  cons.  Never  mind  maneu- 
vering, but  go  at  them,’^  said  Nelson.  The  moment  you  be- 
gin to  maneuver  you  confess  your  doubtfulness  of  success, 
unless  you  can  take  your  adversary  at  a disadvantage ; but 
if  you  fly  headlong  at  his  throat,  you  terrify  him  by  the 
display  of  your  confidence  and  valor. 

The  words  of  Nelson  apply  still  more  closely  to  the  gen- 
eral. His  knowledge  that  fifty  years  ago  the  British  army 
was  worsted  on  this  field,  unnerves,  paralyzes  him.  If  he 
did  not  know  that  shells  are  explosive  and  bullets  deadly, 
he  would  make  his  dispositions  with  twice  the  confidence, 
and  his  temerity  would  fill  the  foe  with  panic.  His  simple 
duty  is  to  defeat  the  enemy,  and  knowing  anything  beyond 
this  only  tends  to  distract  his  mind  and  weaken  his  arm. 
In  the  middle  of  one  of  his  Indian  battles,  and  when  he 
thought  the  conflict  had  been  decided  in  favor  of  British 
arms,  a messenger  rode  hastily  up  to  the  general  in  com- 
mand, who  was  wiping  his  reeking  forehead  on  his  coat- 
sleeve  ; A large  fresh  force  of  the  enemy  has  appeared  in 
such  a place;  what  is  to  be  done?’^  Gough  rubbed  his 
forehead  with  the  other  sleeve,  and  shouted  out,  Beat 
’em ! ” Obviously  no  better  command  could  have  been 
given.  What  the  English  nation  wanted  the  English  army 
to  do  with  the  enemy  was  to  beat  ’em.’’  In  the  pictures 
of  the  Victoria  Cross  there  is  one  of  a young  dandy  officer 
with  an  eyeglass  in  his  eye  and  a sword  in  his  hand, 
among  the  thick  of  the  foe.  He  knows  he  is  in  that  place 
to  kill  some  one.  He  is  quite  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the 
enemy  is  there  to  kill  him,  and  he  is  taking  his  time  and 
looking  through  his  eyeglass  to  try  to  find  some  enticing 
man  through  whom  to  run  his  sword.  One  of  Wellington’s 
most  fervent  prayers  was,  Oh,  spare  me  my  dandy  offi- 
cers ! ” Now  dandies  are  never  very  full  of  knowledge,  and 
yet  the  greatest  Duke  thought  more  of  them  than  of  your 


884 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


learning-begrimed  sappers  or  your  science-bespattered 
gunners. 

If  an  advocate  at  the  bar  knew  one  quarter  of  the  law 
of  the  land,  he  could  never  get  on.  In  the  first  place,  he 
would  know  more  than  the  judges,  and  this  would  preju- 
dice the  bench  against  him.  With  regard  to  a barrister, 
the  best  position  for  him  to  assume,  if  he  is  addressing  a 
jury,  is,  Gentlemen,  the  indisputable  facts  of  the  case, 
as  stated  to  you  by  the  witnesses,  are  so-and-so.  In  pres- 
ence of  so  distinguished  a lawyer  as  occupies  the  bench 
in  this  court,  I do  not  feel  myself  qualified  to  tell  you 
what  the  law  is;  that  will  be  the  easy  dutj^  of  his  lord- 
ship.^’ Even  in  Chancery  cases,  the  barrister  would  best 
insure  success  by  merely  citing  the  precedent  cases,  in  an 
offhand  way,  Does  not  your  lordship  think  the  case  of 
Burke  v.  Hare  meets  the  exact  conditions  of  the  one  under 
consideration?  ” The  indices  are  all  the  pleader  need  look 
at.  The  judge  will  surely  strain  a point  for  one  who  does 
not  bore  him  with  extracts  and  arguments,  but  leaves  all 
to  himself,  and  lets  the  work  of  the  court  run  smoothly  and 
just  as  the  president  wishes. 

Knowledge  is  an  absolute  hindrance  to  the  doctor  of 
medicine.  Supposing  he  is  a man  of  average  intelligence 
(some  doctors  are),  he  is  able  to  diagnose,  let  me  say, 
fever.  You  or  I could  diagnose  fever  pretty  well — quick 
pulse,  dry  skin,  thirst,  and  so  on.  But  as  the  doctor  leans 
over  the  patient,  he  is  paralyzed  by  the  complication  of 
his  knowledge.  Such  a theory  is  against  feeding  up,  such 
a theory  against  slops,  such  a theory  against  bleeding,  such 
a theory  in  favor  of  phlebotomy;  there  are  the  wet  and 
the  dry,  the  hot  and  the  cold  methods;  and  while  the  doc- 
tor is  deliberating,  vacillating,  or  speculating,  the  patient 
has  ample  opportunity  of  dying,  or  nature  of  stepping  in 
and  curing  the  man,  and  thus  foiling  the  doctor.  Is  there 
not  much  more  sense  and  candor  in  the  method  adopted 
by  the  Irish  hunting  dispensary  doctor,  who,  before  start- 
ing with  the  hounds,  locked  up  all  drugs,  except  the 
Glauber’s  salts,  a stone  or  two  of  which  he  left  in  charge 
of  his  servant,  with  instructions  it  was  to  be  meted  out 
impartially  to  all  comers,  each  patient  receiving  an  honest 
fistful  as  a dose?  It  is  a remarkable  fact  that  within  this 
century  homeopathy  has  gained  a firm  hold  on  an  im- 


RICHARD  DOWLING. 


885 


portant  section  of  the  community,  and  yet,  notwithstand- 
ing the  growth  of  what  the  allopathists  or  regular  profes- 
sion regard  as  ignorant  quackery,  the  span  of  human  life 
has  had  six  years  added  to  it  in  eighty  years.  Still  home- 
opathy is  a practical  confession  of  ignorance;  for  it  says, 
in  effect,  We  don^t  know  exactly  what  Nature  is  trying 
to  do,  but  let  us  give  her  a little  help,  and  trust  in  luck.’’ 
Whereas  allopathy  pretended  to  know  everything  and  to 
fight  Nature.  Here,  in  the  result  of  years  added  to  man’s 
' life  by  the  development  of  the  ignorant  system,  we  see  once 
more  the  superiority  of  ignorance  over  knowledge. 

How  full  of  danger  to  the  unwedded  men  is  knowledge 
owned  by  the  widow ! She  has  knowledge  of  the  married 
state,  in  which  she  was  far  removed  from  all  the  troubles 
and  responsibilities  of  life.  She  had  her  pin-money,  her 
bills  paid,  stalls  taken  for  her  at  the  opera,  agreeable  com- 
pany around  her  board,  no  occasion  to  face  money  diffi- 
culties. Now  all  that  is  changed.  There  is  no  elasticity 
in  her  revenue,  no  margin  for  the  gratification  of  her 
whims ; she  has  to  pay  her  own  bills,  secure  her  own  stalls ; 
she  cannot  very  well  entertain  company  often,  and  all  the 
unpleasantnesses  of  business  matters  press  her  sorely.  Her 
knowledge  tells  her  that,  if  she  could  secure  a second  hus- 
band, all  would  be  pleasant  again.  It  may  be  said  that 
here  knowledge  is  in  favor  of  the  widow.  Yes;  but  it  is 
against  the  Community.”  Remember,  the  Community  ” 
is  always  a male. 

There  is  hardly  any  class  or  member  of  the  community 
that  does  not  suffer  drawback  or  injury  from  knowledge. 
As  I am  giving  only  a crude  outline  of  a design,  I leave  a 
great  deal  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader.  He  will  easily 
perceive  how  much  happier  and  more  free  would  be  the 
man  of  business,  the  girl,  the  boy,  the  scientist,  the  contro- 
versialist, and,  above  all,  the  literary  man,  if  each  knew 
little  or  nothing,  instead  of  having  pressed  upon  the  atten- 
tion from  youth  accumulated  experiences,  traditions,  dis- 
coveries, and  reasonings  of  many  centuries. 

To  the  Delights  of  Ignorance,”  I should  devote  the  con- 
sideration of  man  devoid  of  knowledge  under  various  cir- 
cumstances and  in  various  positions. 

By  the  sea  wdio  does  not  love  to  lie  propt  on  beds  of 
amaranth  and  moly,  how  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull, 


886 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


blowing  lowiy),  with  half-dropt  eyelids  still,  beneath  a 
heaven  dark  and  holy,  to  watch  the  long  bright  river  draw- 
ing slowly  his  waters  from  the  purple  hill — to  hear  the 
dewy  echoes  calling  from  cave  to  cave  through  the  thick- 
twined  vine — to  watch  the  emerald-colored  waters  falling- 
through  many  a woven  acanthus  wreath  divine!  Only  to 
see  and  hear  the  far-otf  sparkling  brine,  only  to  hear  were 
sweet,  stretched  out  beneath  the  pine.’’  Just  so!  Is  not 
that  much  better  than  bothering  about  gravitation  and 
that  wretched  old  clinker  the  moon,  and  the  tides,  and  how 
sea-water  is  made  up  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen  and  chloride 
of  sodium  and  bromide  of  something  else,  and  fifty  other 
things  not  one  of  which  has  a tolerable  smell  when  you 
meet  it  in  a laboratory?  Isn’t  it  better  than  thinking  of 
the  number  of  lighthouses  built  on  the  coast  of  Albion, 
and  the  tonnage  which  yearly  is  reported  and  cleared  at 
the  custom-houses  of  London,  Liverpool,  and  that  prosper- 
ous seaport  of  Bohemia!  Isn’t  it  much  better  than  im- 
proving the  occasion  by  reading  a hand-book  on  hydraulics 
or  hydrostatics?  Who  on  the  seashore  wants  to  know  any- 
thing? There  will  always,  down  to  the  last  syllable  of 
recorded  time,  be  finer  things  unknown  about  the  sea  than 
can  be  said  about  all  other  matters  in  the  world.  Trying 
to  know  anything  about  the  sea  is  like  shooting  into  the 
air  an  arrow  attached  to  a pennyworth  of  string  with  a 
view  to  sounding  space.  If  we  threw  all  the  knowledge 
we  have  into  the  ocean  the  Admiralty  standards  of  high- 
water  mark  would  not  have  to  be  altered  one-millionth 
part  of  a line. 

What  a blessing  ignorance  would  be  in  an  inn ! Who 
would  not  dispense  with  a knowledge  of  all  the  miseries 
that  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  vat  when  one  is  thirsty, 
and  has  before  him  amber  sunset-colored  ale,  and  in  his 
hand  a capacious,  long,  cool-meaning  churchwarden?  Who 
would  at  such  a moment  cumber  his  mind  with  the  unit  of 
specific  gravity  used  by  excisemen  in  testing  beer?  Who 
would  at  such  a moment  care  to  calculate  the  toll  exacted 
by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  before  each  cool  gulp 
may  thrill  with  amazing  joy  the  parched  gullet? 

Who,  when  upon  a journey,  would  care  to  know  the  pre- 
cise pressure  required  to  blow  the  boiler  of  the  engine  to 
pieces,  or  the  number  of  people  killed  in  collisions  during 


RICHARD  DOWLING, 


887 


the  corresponding  quarter  of  last  year?  Should  we  not  be 
better  in  sickness  for  not  knowing  the  exact  percentage  of 
deaths  in  cases  of  our  class?  In  adversity  should  we  not 
be  infinitely  happier  were  we  in  ignorance  of  the  chance 
w^e  ran  of  gaining  a good  position  or  of  cutting  our 
throats?  Should  we  not  enjoy  our  prosperity  all  the  more 
if  we  were  not,  morning  and  evening,  exercised  by  the  fluc- 
tuations of  the  share-list,  fluctuations  in  all  likelihood 
destined  never  to  increase  or  diminish  our  fortunes  one 
penny?  And  oh,  for  ignorance  in  sleep!  For  sleep  with- 
out dream,  or  nightmare,  or  memory!  For  sleep  such  as 
falls  upon  the  body  when  the  soul  is  done  with  it  and 
aAvay ! 


ON  DUBLIN  CASTLE.  , 

From  ‘Zozimus.’ 

Dublin  Castle  is  in  the  city  of  Dublin,  and  stands  on  the 
south  side  of  the  River  Liffey,  It  is  called  a castle  because 
it  has  a great  many  windows  and  a portico  to  the  principal 
entrance.  It  you  werenT  told  it  w^as  Dublin  Castle  you 
wouldnT  think  it  ^vas  Dublin  Castle  at  all.  When  I saw  it 
first  I took  it  for  a militia-barrack  or  a poorhouse  for 
gaugers.  When  a man  showed  me  where  the  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant lived  when  he  ^s  at  home  I began  to  think  that  all 
Lord  Lieutenants  must  be  very  low-sized  men,  not  in  the 
least  particular  about  their  lodgings.  The  Castle,  as  it  is 
generally  called,  is  built  on  Cork-hill.  Many  ignorant  peo- 
ple, such  as  members  of  Parliament  and  lords,  think  that 
Cork-hill  is  in  the  city  of  that  name.  Those  who  have 
learned  geography  and  the  use  of  the  globes  know  that 
Cork-hill  has  for  many  centuries  been  in  the  city  of  Dub- 
lin. The  Castle  surrounds  a square  called  the  Upper 
Castle  Yard,  in  the  center  of  which  there  is  a beautiful 
tub  for  holding  flags.  There  is  also  a policeman  in  the 
Upper  Castle  Yard,  but  he  is  not  w^orth  looking  at,  al- 
though his  face  is  generally  clean,  and  he  wears  a silver 
Albert  chain.  There  are  soldiers  walking  up  and  down  at 
the  gate  to  keep  themselves  warm.  They  always  carry 
their  guns,  because,  if  they  put  them  out  of  their  hands, 


888 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Fenians  or  newspaper  boys  or  the  policemen  might  run 
away  with  them.  This  makes  the  soldiers  short-tempered 
and  chew  tobacco.  There  is  a statue  of  Justice  over  the 
gateway.  This  statue  fell  out  of  the  sky  during  a thunder 
storm,  to  where  it  stands,  and  only  that  it  is  red  hot  the 
Government  would  get  men  to  take  it  down,  for  it  has  no 
business  there,  and  looking  at  it  only  makes  the  people 
who  live  in  the  Castle  uncomfortable. 

You  can  go  from  the  Upper  Castle  Yard  to  the  Lower 
Castle  Y"ard  under  an  arched  gateway.  There  are  police- 
men in  the  Lower  Y^ard,  but  they  donT  wear  Albert  chains 
or  pare  their  nails.  The  Lower  Castle  Yard  is  not  a yard 
in  the  least,  but  makes  me  always  think  of  a street  with  a 
broken  back.  There  are  a few  towers  in  it.  These  towers 
are  very  strong.  A man  once  told  me  that  if  you  fired  a 
horse-pistol  at  one  of  them  all  day  you  would  not  be  able  to 
make  a hole  in  it!  A great  number  of  small  boys  play 
marbles  and  ball  here.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  loves  to  see 
innocent  children  amusing  themselves,  and  he  often  sends 
them  out  presents  of  nuts  and  clay  pipes  to  blow  soap-bub- 
bles. When  there  isn’t  a cattle  show,  or  a militia  regiment 
to  be  inspected,  or  a knight  to  be  made,  he  himself  often 
comes  out  in  disguise  and  blows  soap-bubbles.  It  is  always 
remarked  that  the  Lord  Lieutenant’s  soap-bubbles  are  the 
largest  and  of  the  most  beautiful  colors.  A man  once  told 
me  that  it  is  because  the  Lord  Lieutenant  puts  a great  deal 
of  soft  soap  into  the  water  which  he  uses. 

There  is  nothing  connected  with  the  Castle  about  which 
there  are  so  many  wrong  notions  as  about  the  Castle  Hack. 
Some  are  under  the  belief  that  it  is  a man;  others  think  it 
to  be  an  attorney ; and  there  are  those  who  go  so  far  as  to 
assert  that  it  is  a member  of  Parliament.  Of  all  the  peo- 
ple who  indulge  in  such  extravagances,  I .venture  to  say, 
not  one  has  seen,  or  even  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire  par- 
ticularly about  it.  Now,  I have  seen  the  Hack,  and  learned 
all  that  is  to  be  known  concerning  it,  and  am,  therefore, 
well  qualified  to  give  correct  information  and  a faithful 
description  of  it.  I gave  a decent  man  at  the  Castle  half-a- 
crown,  and  he  showed  it  to  me  and  supplied  me  with  all  the 
particulars  I needed.  The  Castle  Hack  is  a poor,  lean, 
wretched  old  horse.  He  is  spavined  and  broken-winded, 
and  his  bones  are  sharply  visible  through  his  faded  and 


RICHARD  DOWLING. 


889 


withered  hide.  He  is  wholly  unequal  to  the  performance 
of  any  honest  work  in  the  fields,  and  he  is  one  of  the  mean- 
est and  most  wretched  objects  which  can  offend  the  sight 
of  a humane  and  worthy  man.  Of  all  the  noble  attributes 
possessed  by  his  species,  none  remain  to  him;  and  of  all 
the  useful  qualities  of  his  fellows,  he  retains  but  one,  that 
of  abject  servility  to  the  rein,  for  he  has  neither  the  gen- 
erosity nor  the  pride,  the  strength  nor  the  swiftness,  which 
makes  his  race  fit  to  be  the  companions  of  men.  There  is 
ever  in  his  eye  the  expression  of  hunger  for  the  corn-bins 
of  the  Castle,  and  dread  lest  he  should  be  worried  to  death 
by  those  of  his  own  race,  in  their  rage  at  seeing  so  obscene 
a creature  wearing  and  dishonoring  their  form.  His  em- 
ployment is  in  keeping  with  his  appearance.  It  is  he 
who  fetches  meat  for  the  Castle  kennel,  and  brings  the 
soiled  linen  of  the  Castle  to  the  laundry  to  be  cleaned.  Al- 
though he  is  docile  to  his  driver,  he  is  spurned  and  de- 
spised. It  is  not  his  to  swell  the  pageant,  but  to  feed 
darkly  at  the  Castle  manger,  to  fear  the  light,  and  to 
crawl  and  shudder  in  the  noisome  ways.  Poor  brute,  if 
he  could  only  have  one  month’s  grazing  on  a hill-side  in 
the  sunlight  he  might  pluck  up  some  spirit,  and  lose  at 
once  his  taste  for  Castle  oats,  and  his  indifference  to  the 
nature  of  the  work  which  he  performed. 

The  oldest  part  of  the  Castle  now  standing  is  the  Back 
Stairs.  The  entrance  to  this  celebrated  staircase  is  in  the 
Castle  Garden.  After  going  up  a few  steps  a passage  is 
reached  which  leads  by  a kind  of  bridge,  over  the  Lower 
Castle  Yard,  into  the  Castle.  The  steps  of  the  stairs  are 
iron ; for  so  many  people  go  up  and  down  that  if  they  were 
made  of  any  softer  substance  they  would  have  been  worn 
away  long  ago.  The  people  who  go  up  this  stairs  carry 
bags  full  of  things  and  wear  their  hats  very  low  over  their 
faces.  They  generally  have  turnips,  and  gum-arabic,  and 
steel  pens,  and  penny  packages  of  stationery  in  their  bags. 
A man  once  told  me  that  they  sometimes  bring  the  heads 
of  people  and  sell  them  at  the  Castle ; he  also  said  that  they 
often  sell  their  country.  Who  could  believe  this?  I had 
heard  so  many  stories  about  this  Back  Stairs  that  I made 
up  my  mind  to  go  and  see  it  for  myself.  Before  setting  out 
I resolved  to  humor  the  people  in  the  Castle,  whatever 
they  might  say  to  me.  I got  a bag,  filled  it  with  artichokes, 


890 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


and,  having  pulled  my  hat  low  over  my  eyes,  went  np. 
When  I got  to  the  top  I met  a man  who  asked  me  if  I 
came  about  that  affair.^’  I said,  “ Yes,^’  and  he  led  me 
into  a small  room,  where  another  man  was  eating  the  end 
of  a large  quill,  and  reading  a large  blue  paper  with 
writing  on  it,  and  having  a large  stamp  in  the  corner.  I 
sat  down.  ‘‘  Did  you  come  about  that  affair?  said  he. 
“ Yes,^^  I answered.  Well,’^  said  he,  did  you  see  him? 

I did,’’  I answered.  What  did  he  say?  ” he  asked.  I 
don’t  know,”  said  I,  feeling  just  as  if  he  would  order  me  to 
be  shot  on  the  spot.  Good,”  he  said ; I see  you  have 
been  reading  the  Tichborne  case  and  have  learned  caution 
from  it.  What  have  you  in  the  bag?”  Artichokes.” 
‘‘  How  many?  ” Twenty-five.”  TVere  there  really  so 
many?  ” Yes.”  And  ‘ choke  him  ’ were  the  words? 
Were  they?”  Yes.”  On  the  night  of  the  15th?” 
Yes.”  How  much  do  you  want  for  the  artichokes?  ” 
One  hundred  pounds.”  Say  two.”  Two.”  Gold  or 
notes?  ” Gold.”  “ Very  good  ! There  you  are,”  said  he, 
handing  me  two  small  bags  of  sovereigns;  your  informa- 
tion is  most  important.  T shall  forward  it  to  the  chief 
to-night.  Good  afternoon.”  And  off  I went  with  my  two 
hundred  sovereigns. 

The  Castle  is  the  best  place  in  the  world  for  selling  arti- 
chokes and  lies.  I would  go  with  another  bag  of  each  now 
only  the  artichokes  are  out  of  season.  Can  you  understand 
what  information  I gave? — I can’t.  I hope  it  wasn’t 
against  a Koyal  Residence  or  asphalting  the  streets  of  the 
city. 


EDMUND  DOWNEY. 

(1856 ) 

Edmund  Downey,  the  “ author-publisher,”  was  born  in  Waterford 
in  1856,  and  is  the  son  of  a shipowner  and  broker.  He  was  educated 
at  the  Catholic  University  School  and  St.  John’s  College  in  that  city. 
He  went  to  London  in  1878,  and  was  for  a time  in  the  office  of  Tins- 
ley, the  publisher.  He  afterward  became  a partner  in  the  firm  of 
Ward  & Downey,  from  which  he  retired  in  1890,  and  in  1894  he 
established  the  publishing  business  of  Downey  & Co. 

He  is  the  author  of  the  well-known  stories  signed  “ F.  M.  Allen,” 
‘Through  Green  Glasses,’  etc.  These  humorous  Irish  stories  are 
perhaps  the  better  known,  but  they  are  hardly  superior  to  his  sea- 
stories.  ‘ Anchor- Watch  Yarns  ’ and  kindred  tales  by  Mr.  Downey 
place  him  in  the  front  rank  of  writers  of  sea-stories.  His  ‘ Mer- 
chant of  Killogue  ’ is  in  more  serious  vein.  It  is  a patiently  wrought- 
out  picture  of  a big  central  figure  and  of  the  surrounding  life  of  an 
Irish  country  town.  Among  his  other  books  are  ‘ Green  as  Grass,’ 
1892;  ‘Round  Tower  of  Babel,’  1892;  ‘The  Land  Smeller,’  1893; 
‘ Ballybeg  Junction,’ 1894;  ‘Little  Green  Man,’  1895;  ‘ Pinches  of 
Salt,’  1895;  ‘The  Ugly  Man,’  1896. 

FROM  PORTLAW  TO  PARADISE. 

Wance  upon  a time,  an^  a very  good  time  it  was  too, 
there  was  a dacent  little  man,  named  Paddy  Power,  that 
lived  in  the  parish  of  Portlaw. 

At  the  time  I spayke  of,  an’  indeed  for  a long  spell  before 
it,  most  of  Paddy’s  neighbors  had  wandhered  from  the 
thrue  fold,  an’  the  sheep  that  didn’t  stray  wor,  not  to  put 
too  fine  a point  on  it,  a black  lot.  But  Paddy  had  always 
con  thrived  to  keep  his  last  end  in  view,  an’  he  stuck  to  the 
ould  faith  like  a poor  man’s  plasther. 

Well,  in  the  coorse  of  time  poor  Paddy  felt  his  days  wor 
well-nigh  numbered,  so  he  tuk  to  the  bed  an’  sent  for  the 
priest;  an’  thin  he  settled  himself  down  to  aise  his  con- 
science an’  to  clear  the  road  in  the  other  world  by  manes 
of  a good  confession. 

He  reeled  off  his  sins,  mortial  an’  vanyial,  to  the  priest 
by  the  yard,  an’  begor  he  felt  mighty  sorrowful  intirely 
whin  he  thought  what  a bad  boy  he ’d  been,  an’  what  a hape 
of  quare  things  he ’d  done  in  his  time — though,  as  I ’ve 
said  before,  he  was  a dacent  little  man  in  his  way,  only, 
you  see,  bein’  so  close  to  the  other  side  of  Jordan,  he  tuk 

891 


892 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


an  onaisy  view  of  all  his  sayings  and  doings.  Poor  Paddy — 
small  blame  to  him — was  very  aiger  to  get  a comfortable 
corner  in  glory  in  his  ould  age,  for  he  ^d  a hard  sthruggle 
enough  of  it  here  below. 

Well,  whin  he  ^d  towld  all  his  sins  to  Father  McGrath, 
an^  whin  Father  McGrath  had  given  him  a few  hard  rubs 
by  way  of  consolation,  he  bent  his  head  to  get  the  absolu- 
tion, an’  lo  an’  behold  you!  before  the  priest  could  get 
through  the  words  that  would  open  the  gates  of  glory  to 
poor  Paddy,  the  life  wint  out  of  the  man’s  body. 

It  seems ’t  was  a busy  mornin’  in  heaven,  an’  as  soon  as 
Father  McGrath  began  to  say  the  first  words  of  the  abso- 
lution, down  they  claps  Paddy  Power’s  name  on  the  due- 
book.  However,  we  ’ll  come  to  that  part  of  the  story 
by-an’-by. 

An^diow,  up  goes  Paddy,  an’  before  be  knew  where  he 
was  he  found  himself  standin’  outside  the  gates  of  Para- 
dise. Of  coorse,  he  partly  guessed  there  ’ud  be  throuble, 
but  he  thought  he ’d  put  a bowld  face  on,  so  he  gives  a hard 
double-knock  at  the  door,  an’  a holy  saint  shoves  back  the 
slide  an’  looks  out  at  him  through  an  iron  gratin’. 

God  save  all  here ! ” says  Paddy. 

God  save  you  kindly!  ” says  the  saint. 

Maybe  I ’m  too  airly?  ” says  Paddy,  dhreadin’  all  the 
time  that ’t  is  the  cowld  showlder  he ’d  get. 

’T  is  naither  airly  nor  late  here,”  says  the  saint,  per- 
vidin’  you  ’re  on  the  w^ay-bill.  What ’s  yer  name?  ” says  he. 

Paddy  Power,”  says  the  little  man  from  Portlaw. 

There ’s  so  many  of  that  name  due  here,”  says  the 
saint,  that  I must  ax  you  for  further  particulars.” 

“ You  ’re  quite  welcome,  your  reverence,”  says  Paddy. 

What ’s  your  occupation?  ” says  the  saint. 

Well,”  says  Paddy,  I can  turn  my  hand  to  anything 
in  raison.” 

“ A kind  of  Jack-of-all-thrades?  ” says  the  saint. 

Not  exactly  that,”  says  Paddy,  thinkin’  the  saint  was 
thryin’  to  make  fun  of  him.  In  fact,”  says  he,  I ’m  a 
general  dayler.” 

An’  what  do  you  generally  dale  in?  ” axes  the  saint. 

All ’s  fish  that  comes  to  my  net,”  says  Paddy,  thinkin’, 
of  coorse,  ’t  would  put  Saint  Pether  in  good  humor  to  be 
reminded  of  ould  times. 


ED3IUXD  DOWXEY, 


893 


An’  is  it  a fisherman  you  are,  thin?  ” axes  the  saint. 

Well,  no,”  says  Paddy,  though  I ’ve  done  a little 
huckstherin’  in  fish  in  my  time;  but  I was  partial  to  scrap- 
iron,  as  a rule.” 

To  tell  you  the  thruth,”  says  the  saint,  I ’m  not  over 
fond  of  general  daylin’,  but  of  coorse  my  private  feelin’s 
don’t  intherfere  wud  my  duties  here.  I ’m  on  the  gates 
agen  my  will  for  the  matther  of  that ; but  that ’s  naither 
here  nor  there  so  far  as  yourself  is  consarned,  Paddy,” 
says  he. 

It  must  be  a hard  dhrain  on  the  constitution  at  times,” 
says  Paddy,  “ to  be  on  the  door  from  mornin’  till  night.” 

’T  is,”  says  the  saint,  of  a busy  day — but  I must  go 
an’  have  a look  at  the  books.  Paddy  Power  is  your  name?  ” 
says  he. 

Yis,”  says  Paddy;  an’,  though  ’t  is  meself  that  says 
it,  I ’m  not  ashamed  of  it.” 

An’  where  are  you  from?  ” axes  the  saint. 

From  the  parish  of  Portlaw,”  says  Paddy. 

I never  heard  tell  of  it,”  says  the  saint,  bitin’  his 
thumb. 

Sure  it  couldn’t  be  expected  you  would,  sir,”  says 
Paddy,  for  it  lies  at  the  back  of  God-speed.” 

Well,  stand  there,  Paddy  avic/’  says  the  holy  saint, 
an’  I ’ll  have  a good  look  at  the  books.” 

God  bless  you ! ” says  Paddy.  Wan  ’ud  think ’t  was 
born  in  Munsther  you  wor.  Saint  Pether,  you  have  such 
an  iligant  accent  in  spaykin’.” 

Faix,  Paddy  was  beginnin’  to  dliread  that  his  name 
wouldn’t  be  found  on  the  books  at  all  on  account  of  his  not 
havin’  complate  absolution,  so  he  thought  ’t  was  the  best 
of  his  play  to  say  a soft  word  to  the  keeper  of  the  kays. 

The  saint  tuk  a hasty  glance  at  the  enthry-book,  but 
whin  Paddy  called  him  Saint  Pether  he  lifted  his  head  an’ 
put  his  face  to  the  wicket  again,  an’  there  was  a cunnin’ 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

An’  so  you  thinks ’t  is  Saint  Pether  I am?  ” says  he. 

Of  coorse,  your  reverence,”  says  Paddy ; “ an’  ’t  is  a 
rock  of  sense  I ’m  towld  you  are.” 

Well,  wud  that  the  saint  began  to  laugh  very  hearty,  an’ 
says  he — 

Now  it ’s  a quare  thing  that  every  wan  of  ye  that 


894 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


comes  from  below  thinks  Saint  Pether  is  on  the  gates  con- 
stant. Do  you  raley  think,  Paddy, says  he,  that  Saint 
Pether  has  nothing  else  to  do,  nor  no  way  to  pass  the  time 
except  by  standin’  here  in  the  cowld  from  yearns  end  to 
year’s  end,  openin’  the  gates  of  Paradise?  ” 

Begor,”  says  Paddy,  that  never  sthruck  me  before, 
sure  enough.  Of  coorse  he  must  have  some  sort  of  divar- 
sion  to  pass  the  time.  An’  might  I ax  your  reverence,” 
says  he,  what  3 our  own  name  is?  an’  I hopes  you  ’ll  par- 
don my  ignorance.” 

“ Don’t  mintion  that,”  says  the  saint ; but  I ’d  rather 
not  tell  you  my  name,  just  yet  at  any  rate,  for  a raison  of 
my  own.” 

Plaize  yourself  an’  you  ’ll  plaize  me,  sir,”  says  Paddy. 

’T  is  a civil-spoken  little  man  3^ou  are,”  says  the  saint. 
Findin’  the  saint  was  such  a nice  agreeable  man  an’  such 
an  iligant  discoorser,  Paddy  thought  he ’d  venture  on  a 
few  remarks  just  to  dodge  the  time  until  some  other  poor 
sowl  ’ud  turn  up  an’  give  him  the  chance  to  slip  into  Para- 
dise unbeknownst — for  he  knew  that  wance  he  got  in  by 
hook  or  by  crook  they  could  never  have  the  heart  to  turn 
him  out  of  it  again.  So  saj^s  he — 

jMight  I ax  what  Saint  Pether  is  doin’  just  now?  ” 

“ He ’s  at  a hurlin’  match,”  says  the  deputy. 

Oh,  murdher ! ” says  Paddy,  couldn’t  I get  a peep 
at  the  match  while  you’re  examinin’  the  books?  ” 

“ I ’m  afeard  not,”  says  the  saint,  shakin’  his  head. 

Besides,”  says  he,  I think  the  fun  is  nearly  over  by  this 
time.” 

Is  there  often  a hurlin’  match  here?  ” axes  Paddy. 

Wance  a year,”  says  the  saint.  You  see,”  says  he, 
pointin’  over  his  showldher  wud  his  thumb,  they  have 
all  nationalities  in  here,  and  they  plays  the  game  of  aich 
nation  on  aich  pathron  saint’s  day,  if  3^ou  undherstand 
me.” 

I do,”  says  Paddy.  An’  sure  enough  ’t  was  Saint 
Pathrick’s  Day  in  the  mornin’  whin  I started  from  Port- 
law,  an’  the  last  thing  I did — of  coorse  before  tellin’  my 
sins — was  to  dhrink  my  Pathrick’s  pot.” 

More  power  to  you ! ” says  the  saint. 

I suppose  Saint  Pathrick  is  the  umpire  to-day?  ” says 
Paddy. 


EDMUI^D  DOWNEY, 


895 


says  the  saint.  Aich  of  us,  you  see,  takes  our 
turn  at  the  gates  on  our  own  festival  days.’^ 

Holy  Moses ! shouts  Paddy.  Thin  T is  to  Saint 
Pathrick  himself  I been  talkin^  all  this  while  back.  Oh, 
murdher  alive,  did  I ever  think  I M live  to  see  this  day ! ’’ 
Begor,  the  poor  angashore  ^ of  a man  was  fairly  knocked 
off  his  head  to  discover  he  was  discoorsin^  so  fameeliarly 
wud  the  great  Saint  Pathrick,  an’  the  great  saint  himself 
was  proud  to  see  what  a dale  the  little  man  from  Portlaw 
thought  of  him ; but  he  didn’t  let  on  to  Paddy  how  plaized 
he  was.  Ah ! ” says  he,  sure  we  ’re  all  on  an  aiquality 
here.  You  ’ll  be  a great  saint  yourself,  maybe,  wan  of  these 
days.” 

The  heavens  forbid,”  says  Paddy.  that  I ’d  dhrame  of 
ever  being  on  an  aiquality  wud  your  reverence!  Begor, 
’fc  is  a joyful  man  I ’d  be  to  be  allowed  to  spake  a few  words 
to  you  wance  in  a blue  moon.  Aiquality,  inagh!  ” ^ says  he. 
“ Sure  what  aiquality  could  there  be  between  the  great 
apostle  of  Quid  Ireland  and  Paddy  Power,  general  day- 
ler,  from  Portlaw?” 

“ I wish  there  was  more  of  ’em  your  way  of  thinkin’, 
Paddy,”  says  Saint  Pathrick,  sighin’  deeply. 

An’  do  you  mane  to  tell  me,”  puts  Paddy,  that  any 
crajTlmr  inside  there  ’ud  dar  to  put  himself  an  an  aiqual 
footin’  wud  yourself?  ” 

I do,  thin,”  saj^s  Saint  Pathrick;  an’  worse  than 
that,”  says  he,  there ’s  some  of  ’em  thinks ’t  is  very  small 
potatoes  I am,  in  their  own  mind.  I gives  you  me  word, 
Paddy,  that  it  takes  me  all  my  time  occasional!}^  to  keep 
my  timper  wud  Saint  George  an’  Saint  Andhrew.” 

Bad  luck  to  ’em  both!  ” said  Paddy,  intherruptin’  him. 

Whisht ! ” says  Saint  Pathrick.  I partly  admires 
your  sintiments,  but  I must  tell  you  there ’s  no  rale  ill-will 
allowed  inside  here.  You  ’ll  feel  complately  changed 
wance  you  gets  at  the  right  side  of  the  gate.” 

The  divil  a change  could  make  me  keep  quiet,”  says 
Paddy,  if  I heard  the  biggest  saint  in  Paradise  say  a hard 
word  agen  you,  or  even  dar’  to  put  himself  on  a par  wud 
you ! ” 

Oh,  Paddy ! ” says  Saint  Pathrick,  you  mustn’t  allow 
your  timper  to  get  the  betther  of  you.  ’T  is  hard,  I know, 
1 Angashore,  pitiful  figure.  ^ inagh,  forsooth. 


896 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


avic,  to  sthruggle  at  times  agen  your  feelings,  but  the  laiste 
said  the  soonest  mended.’’ 

An’  will  I meet  Saint  George  and  Saint  Andhrew  whin 
I get  inside?  ” 

You  will,”  says  Saint  Pathrick ; but  you  mustn’t  dis- 
grace our  counthry  by  makin’  a row  wud  aither  of  ’em.” 

I ’ll  do  my  best,”  says  Paddy,  as  ’t  is  yourself  that 
axes  me.  An’  is  there  any  more  of  ’em  that  thrates  ^mu 
wud  contimpt?  ” 

Well,  not  many,”  says  Saint  Pathrick.  An’  indeed,” 
says  he,  ’t  is  only  an  odd  day  we  meets  at  all ; an’  I can 
tell  you  I ’m  not  a bad  hand  at  takin’  my  own  part — but 
there ’s  wan  fellow,”  says  he,  that  breaks  my  giddawn  ^ 
intirely.” 

An’  who  is  he?  the  bla’guard ! ” says  Paddy. 

He ’s  an  uncanonized  craychur  named  Brakespeare,” 
says  Saint  Pathrick. 

A wondher  you ’d  be  seen  talkin’  to  the  likes  of  him ! ” 
says  Paddy ; an’  who  is  he  at  all  ? ” 

Did  you  never  hear  tell  of  him?”  says  Saint  Path- 
rick. 

Never,”  says  Paddy. 

Well,”  says  Saint  Pathrick,  he  made  the  worst 
bull ” 

Thin,”  says  Paddy,  intherruptin’  him  in  hot  haste, 
he ’s  wan  of  ourselves — more  shame  for  him ! Oh,  wait 
till  I gets  a grip  of  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck ! ” 

“ Whisht ! I tell  you ! ” says  Saint  Pathrick.  Perhaps 
’t  is  committin’  a vaynial  sin  you  are  now,  an’  if  that  wor 
to  come  to  Saint  Pether’s  ears,  maybe  he ’d  clap  twinty 
years  of  Limbo  on  to  you — for  he ’s  a hard  man  some- 
times, especially  if  he  hears  of  any  one  losin’  his  timper, 
or  getting  impatient  at  the  gates.  An’  moreover,”  says 
Saint  Pathrick,  himself  an’  this  Brakespeare  are  as  thick 
as  thieves,  for  they  both  sat  in  the  same  chair  below.  I 
had  a hot  argument  wud  Nick  yesterday.” 

Quid  Nick,  is  it?  ” says  Paddy. 

No,”  says  Saint  Pathrick,  laughin’.  Nick  Brake- 
speare, I mane — the  same  indeveedual  I was  tellin’  you 
about.” 

I beg  your  reverence’s  pardon,”  says  Paddy,  an’  I 
1 Oiddawn,  kidney  ; fig.  back. 


EDMUND  DOWNEY, 


897 


hopes  you  ^11  excuse  my  ignorance.  But  you  wor  goin’  to 
give  me  an  account  of  this  hot  argument  you  had  wud  the 
bla’guard  whin  I put  in  my  spoke.^’ 

Begor,  Saint  Pathrick  dhrew  in  his  horns  thin,  an^ 
fearin’  Paddy  might  think  they  wor  in  the  habit  of  squab- 
blin’ in  heaven,  he  says,  Of  coorse,  I meant  only  a frindly 
discussion.” 

An’  what  was  the  frindly  discussion  about?  ” axes 
Paddy. 

About  this  bull  of  his,”  says  Pathrick. 

The  mischief  choke  himself  an’  his  cattle ! ” says 
Paddy. 

Begor,”  says  Saint  Pathrick,  ’t  was  choked  the  poor 
man  was,  sure  enough.” 

More  power  to  the  man  that  choked  him ! ” says  Paddy. 
I hopes  ye  canonized  him.” 

’T  wasn’t  a man  at  all,”  says  Saint  Pathrick. 

A fay  male,  perhaps?  ” says  Paddy. 

Fie,  fie,  Paddy,”  says  Saint  Pathrick.  Come,  guess 
again.” 

All,  I ’m  a poor  hand  at  guessin’,”  says  Paddy. 

Well,  ’t  was  a blue-bottle,”  says  St.  Pathrick. 

An’  was  it  thryin’  to  swallow  the  bottle  an’  all  he 
was?  ” says  Paddy.  He  must  have  been  ^ a hard  case.’  ” 
Begor,  Saint  Pathrick  burst  out  laughin’  an’  says 
he,  You  ’ll  make  your  mark  here,  Paddy,  I have  no 
doubt.” 

I ’ll  make  my  mark  on  them  that  slights  your  rever- 
ence, believe  me,”  says  Paddy. 

Hush ! ” says  Saint  Pathrick,  puttin’  his  finger  on 
his  lips  an’  lookin’  very  solemn  an’  business-like.  Here 
comes  Saint  Pether,”  he  whispers,  rattlin’  the  kays  to  show 
he  was  mindin’  his  duties.  He  looks  in  good-humor  too; 
so  it ’s  in  luck  you  are.” 

I hope  so,  at  any  rate,”  says  Paddy;  for  the  clouds  is 
very  damp,  an’  I ’m  throubled  greatly  wud  the  rheumatics.” 

Well,  Pathrick,”  says  Saint  Pether,  cornin’  up  to  the 
gates — Paddy  Power  could  just  get  a sighth  of  the  pair 
inside  through  the  bars  of  the  wicket — how  goes  the 
enemy?  Have  you  had  a hard  day  of  it,  my  son?  ” 

A very  hard  mornin’,”  says  Saint  Pathrick.  They 
wor  flockin’  here  as  thick  as  flies  at  cock-crow — I mane,”- 


808 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


says  be,  gettin’  very  red  in  the  face,  for  he  was  in  dbread 
be  was  aftber  puttin’  bis  fut  in  it  wud  Saint  Petber,  I 
mane  just  at  daybreak.” 

It ’s  stbrange,”  says  Saint  Petber,  in  a dbramey  kind 
of  a way,  ‘‘  but  I ’ve  noticed  meself  that  there ’s  often  a 
great  rush  of  people  in  the  airly  mornin’ : often  I don’t 
know  whether  it ’s  on  my  bead  or  my  heels  I do  be  standin’ 
wud  the  noise  they  kicks  up  outside,  elbowin’  wan  another, 
an’  bawlin’  at  me  as  if  it  was  hard  of  bearin’  I was.” 

How  did  the  match  go?  ” says  Saint  Patbrick,  aiger  to 
divart  Saint  Petber’s  mind  from  bis  tbroubles. 

Grand  I ” says  Saint  Petber,  brightenin’  up.  “ Hurlin’ 
is  a great  game.  It  takes  all  the  stiffness  out  of  my  ould 
joints.  But  who ’s  that  outside?  ” catcbin’  sigbtb  of  Paddy 
Power. 

‘‘  A poor  fellow  from  Ireland,”  says  Saint  Patbrick. 

I dunno  bow  we  ’re  to  find  room  for  all  these  Irish- 
men,” says  Saint  Petber,  scratcbin’  bis  bead.  ’T  was 
only  last  week  I gev  ordbers  to  have  a new  wing  added  to 
the  Irish  mansion,  an’  begor  I ’m  towld  to-day  that  ’t  is 
chock  full  already.  But  of  coorse  we  must  find  room  for 
the  poor  sowls.  Did  this  chap  come  via  Purgatbory?” 
say  be. 

No,”  says  Saint  Patbrick.  They  sint  him  up  direct.” 
Who  is  be?  ” says  Saint  Petber. 

His  name  is  Paddy  Power,”  says  St.  Patbrick.  “ He 
seems  a dacent  sort  of  craycbur.” 

Where ’s  be  from?  ” axes  Saint  Petber. 

The  parish  of  Portlaw,”  says  Saint  Patbrick. 
‘^Portlaw!”  says  Saint  Petber.  Well,  that’s 
stbrange,”  says  he,  rubbin’  bis  chin.  You  know  I never 
forgets  a name,  but  to  my  sartin  knowledge  I never  beard 
of, Portlaw  before.  Has  he  a clane  record?  ” 

There ’s  a thrifle  wrong  about  it,”  says  Saint  Patbrick. 
He ’s  down  on  the  way-bill,  but  there  are  some  charges 
agen  him  not  quite  rubbed  out.” 

“ In  that  case,”  says  Saint  Petber,  we ’d  best  be  on  the 
safe  side,  an’  sind  him  to  Limbo  for  a spell.” 

Begor,  when  Paddy  Power  beard  this  he  nearly  lost  his 
seven  sinses  wud  the  fright,  so  he  puts  his  face  close  up 
to  the  wicket,  an’  be  cries  out  in  a pitiful  voice — 

“ O blessed  Saint  Petber,  don’t  be  too  hard  on  me.  Sure 


EDMVND  DOWt^EY. 


899 


even  below,  where  the  law  is  sthrict  enough  agen  a poor 
sthrugglin’  boj,  they  always  allows  him  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  an’  I gives  you  my  word,  yer  reverence,  ’t  was  only 
by  an  accident  the  slate  wasn’t  rubbed  clane.  I know  for 
sartin  that  Father  McGrath  said  some  of  the  words  of  the 
absolution  before  the  life  wint  out  of  my  body.  Don’t 
dhrive  a helpless  ould  man  to  purgathory,  I beseeches  you. 
Saint  Pathrick  will  go  bail  for  my  good  behavior,  I ’ll  be 
bound ; an’  ’t  is  many  the  prayer  I said  to  your  own  self 
below ! ” 

Falx,  Saint  Pether  was  touched  wud  the  implorin’  way 
Paddy  spoke,  an’  turnin’  to  Saint  Pathrick  he  says,  ’T  is 
a quare  case,  sure  enough.  I don’t  know  that  I ever  re- 
mimber  the  like  before,  an’  my  memory  is  of  the  best.  I 
think  we ’d  do  right  to  have  a consultation  over  the  affair 
before  we  decides  wan  way  or  the  other.” 

Ah,  give  the  poor  angashore  a chance,”  says  Saint 
Pathrick.  ’T  is  hard  to  scald  him  for  an  accident.  Be- 
sides,” says  he,  brightenin’  up  as  a thought  sthruck  him, 
you  say  you  never  had  a man  before  from  the  parish  of 
Portlaw,  an’  I remimber  you  towld  me  wance  that  you ’d 
like  to  have  a represintative  here  from  every  parish  in  the 
world.” 

Thrue  enough,”  says  Saint  Pether;  an’  maybe  I’d 
never  have  another  chance  from  Portlaw.” 

Maybe  not,”  says  Saint  Pathrick,  humorin’  him. 

So  Saint  Pether  takes  a piece  of  injy-rubber  from  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  an’  goin’  over  to  the  enthry-book  he  rubs 
out  the  charges  agen  Paddy  Power. 

I ’ll  take  it  on  meself,”  says  he,  to  docthor  the  books 
for  this  wance,  only  don’t  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  on  me, 
Pathrick,  my  son.” 

Never  fear,”  says  Saint  Pathrick.  Depind  your  life 
on  me.” 

Well,  it ’s  done,  anyhow,”  says  Saint  Pether,  puttin’ 
the  injy-rubber  back  into  his  pocket;  an’  if  you  hands  me 
over  the  kays,  Pat,”  says  he,  I ’ll  relaise  you  for  the  day, 
so  that  you  can  show  your  frind  over  the  grounds.” 

’T  is  a grand  man  you  are ! ” says  Saint  Pathrick. 
My  blessin’  on  you,  avid  ’’ 

Come  in,  Paddy  Power,”  says  Saint  Pether,  openin’ 
the  gate ; an’  remimber  always  that  you  wouldn’t  be  here 


900 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


for  majbe  nine  hundred  an’  ninety-nine  year  or  more  only 
that  you  ’re  the  only  olfer  we  ever  had  from  the  Parish  of 
Portlaw.” 


KING  JOHN  AND  THE  MAYOR. 

I suppose  it ’s  well  known  that  King  John  made  two 
visits  to  the  city  of  Watherford.  The  first  time  he  came  he 
was  only  a slip  of  a boy  of  about  nineteen  year,  an’  his 
father,  who  had  a hard  job  rearin’  him  (for  ’t  is  the  un- 
mannerdly  young  cub  he  was)  thought  he’d  kill  two  birds 
wud  wan  stone  by  gettin’  rid  of  the  prince  for  a short  spell 
in  the  first  place,  an’  by  gettin’  the  boy  to  make  himself 
frindly  wud  the  Irish  chiefs  in  the  second  place. 

But  nothin’  would  suit  young  Masther  John  except  di- 
varsion  an’  bla’guardin’.  The  moment  he  put  his  fut  on 
Irish  soil  he  began  to  poke  fun  at  the  ould  chieftains’ 
beards.  ’T  was  jealous  the  young  jackanapes  was  of  the 
fine  hairy  faces  of  the  crowd  that  met  him  on  the  quay  of 
Watherford,  for  divil  a hair  he  could  grow  on  the  upper 
part  of  his  lip,  though  he  was  near  dhraggin’  the  English 
coort  into  bankruptcy  wud  the  quantities  of  bears’  grease 
an’  other  barbers’  thricks  he  thried  day  afther  day  to  coax 
out  even  a few  morsels  of  a mustache. 

Anyhow  he  made  naither  a good  beginnin’  nor  a good 
endin’  on  his  first  thrip  to  Ireland.  He  ate  so  much  fresh 
salmon  that  a rash  broke  out  on  him,  an’  nearly  dhrove 
him  to  despair,  for  he  was  fond  of  the  fay  males,  an’  a man 
wud  a bad  rash  even  if  he ’s  a prince  of  the  blood  isn’t 
the  soort  of  craychur  to  make  much  headway  wud  the 
girls. 

He  got  over  the  rash,  however,  in  due  course;  an’  built 
an  hospital  in  mimory  of  his  recovery;  an’  to  this  day  it 
stands  there  at  the  fut  of  John’s  Hill,  an’  is  called  the 

Leper  Hospital.” 

As  soon  as  he  got  well  rid  of  the  rash,  he  began  to  make 
ructions  in  the  counthry,  kickin’  out  the  rale  ould  anshant 
owners  of  the  soil,  an’  makin’  presents  of  what  didn’t  be- 
long to  him  to  his  own  follyers.  Begor  even  owld  Henery, 
the  father,  got  unaisy  at  the  son’s  plan  of  campaign,  so 
back  he  calls  Prince  John  an’  puts  a Misther  Decoorcy  ia 
his  place. 


EDMV^^D  DOWNEY. 


901 


Well,  time  passed  on,  an’  when  his  call  came,  ould  Hen- 
ery  the  Second  wint  to  Limbo;  an’  afther  a spell,  the  son 
John  got  a howld  of  the  throne.  He  had  always  a hank- 
erin’ for  the  Watherford  salmon,  even  afther  the  rash  it 
broke  out  on  him,  so  as  soon  as  he  could  make  things  snug 
in  the  English  coort,  away  he  sails  again  for  Ireland. 

This  time  of  coorse  he  was  a full  king,  an’  as  he  was 
several  years  ouldher,  the  Watherford  people  naturally 
expected  his  mannei^s  would  have  improved ; so  they  made 
up  their  minds  to  forget  the  thricks  an’  bla’guardin’  of  the 
nineteen  year  ould  prince,  an’  to  give  King  John  a hearty 
welcome. 

When  the  Mayor  an’  Corporation  heard  the  news  that 
the  royal  barge  was  cornin’  up  the  river,  they  put  on  their 
grand  robes  and  started  down  the  quay.  They  wint  out- 
side the  walls  a bit  until  they  came  to  a piece  of  slob  land 
near  the  mouth  of  a sthrame,  an’  there  they  stud  up  to 
their  ankles  in  slush  until  the  king’s  ship  hove  in  sighth. 
Thin  they  waved  a flag  of  welcome  to  his  Majesty,  who  was 
standin’  on  deck,  an’  bawled  out  to  him  to  dhrop  anchor 
abreast  of  them.  So  the  captain — a red-whiskered  Welsh- 
man who  chawed  more  tobaccy  than  was  wholesome  for 
him — puts  the  ship’s  head  in  for  the  shore,  an’  dhropped 
anchor  as  soon  as  he  got  close  to  the  slob  where  the  Mayor 
and  Corporation  wor  standin’. 

How  are  we  to  get  ashore,  boys?  ” says  King  John, 
makin’  a fog-horn  of  his  fists. 

Aisy,  avic/’  says  the  Mayor.  It ’s  a sthrong  ebb  tide 
now,  an’  if  you  ’ll  go  below  into  your  cabin  the  ship  will 
dhry  while  your  clanein’  your  face  an’  hands  an’  fixin’  the 
crown  on  your  poll.” 

All  right,”  says  King  John.  Come  aboord  as  soon  as 
the  tide  laives  her.” 

I will,”  says  the  Mayor. 

Wud  that  King  John  went  down  to  the  cabin,  an’  in 
about  half  an  hour  the  ship  began  to  ground  an’  very  soon 
afther  the  Mayor,  not  heedin’  the  sighth  of  a fut  or  two 
of  wather  between  him  an’  the  king’s  craft,  made  a start 
to  go  down  to  her. 

Howld  on  there,  where  ye  are,”  says  he  to  the  Corpora- 
tion. If  ye  was  all  to  come  aboord  maybe ’t  is  heel  over 


902 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


the  little  vessel  would,  for  she  looks  a crank  piece  of 
goods.’^ 

All  right, says  the  Corporation.  We  ^11  wait  here 
till  you  return,  and  safe  journey  to  your  worship ! 

Well,  whin  the  Mayor  got  on  deck  of  coorse  his  boots 
were  dhrippin^  wud  mud  an’  wather. 

Is  there  a door-mat  aboord?”  says  he  to  the  skipper. 
Divil  a wan,”  says  the  skipper.  Do  you  think  ’t  is 
in  a lady’s  chamber  you  are?  ” 

You  ’re  an  unmannerdly  lot,”  says  the  Mayor,  stampin’ 
on  the  decks  an’  givin’  a kick  out  wud  his  left  leg  to  shake 
some  of  the  wather  out  of  his  boot. 

Just  at  that  moment  up  comes  King  John  from  the 
cabin,  an’  a few  spatthers  of  mud  went  into  his  royal  eye. 

Before  the  Mayor  could  open  his  mouth  to  ax  pardon  the 
King  bawls  out  at  him,  What  the  mischief  do  you  mane, 
you  lubber?  Will  nothin’  plaize  you  only  knockin’  the 
sighth  out  of  my  eyes  an’  dirtyin’  my  decks  wud  your 
muddy  say-boots?  ’T  is  more  like  a mud-lark  than  a 
Mayor  you  are.” 

The  poor  Mayor  very  nearly  lost  his  timper  intirely  at 
the  insultin’  words  of  King  John,  for  ’t  was  none  of  his 
fault  that  he  dirtied  the  decks,  but  he  managed  to  conthrol 
himself,  an’  says  he,  I ax  your  majesty’s  pardon  for 
bringing  the  mud  aboord,  but  might  I make  so  bowld  as  to 
inquire  how  I could  be  expected  to  have  clane  boots  afther 
thrampin’  through  the  slush  out  there?  An’  as  for  knockin’ 
the  sight  out  of  your  eyes,”  says  he,  “ I give  you  me  word  I 
never  seen  you  cornin’  up  the  cabin  stairs  or  I wouldn’t 
have  lashed  out  wud  my  leg.” 

Give  me  none  of  your  lip,”  says  the  King.  I ’d  cut 
your  ugly  sconce  off  if  I thought  there  was  a thought  of 
thraison  in  your  mind.” 

Thraison ! ” says  the  Mayor,  mighty  indignant,  for 
’t  is  a proud  soort  of  a man  he  was  in  his  way.  I don’t 
know  the  maynin’  of  the  word.” 

I ’ll  soon  tache  you  the  maynin’  of  it,  you  spalpeen,” 
says  the  King;  an’  if  you  don’t  go  down  on  your  bended 
knees  an’  beg  my  pardon  this  minute,  an’  give  me  your 
note  of  hand  for  five  hundred  pound  I ’ll  dhraw  your 
teeth  first  for  you,  an’  thin  I ’ll  thry  you  for  thraison,  wud 


EDMVlsW  DOWNEY. 


903 


meself  for  judge  and  jury,  as  soon  as  I sets  fut  in  the 
city.’’ 

The  mischief  only  knows  what  would  have  happened 
thin  only  for  a chum  of  the  King’s  who  came  up  from  the 
cabin  at  that  minute. 

Your  Majesty,”  says  the  young  lord,  I think,  with 
all  due  respects  to  you,  you  ’re  too  hard  agen  the  Mayor. 
Sure  the  poor  man  did  his  best.  He  came  aboord  at  the 
risk  of  gettin’  a heavy  cowld  in  his  head,  in  ordher  to 
give  you  an  airly  welcome,  an’  how  could  he  mane  thraison 
when  he  ran  such  a risk  to  sarve  you?  ” 

Maybe  you  ’re  right,”  says  King  John,  who  owed  the 
young  lord  a big  lump  of  money  and  was  partial  to  him 
for  other  raisons  too.  Maybe  you  ’re  right ; an’  I know,” 
says  he,  “ that  my  timper  is  none  of  the  best;  and  moreover 
the  say-sickness  isn’t  out  of  my  stomach  yet,  bad  luck  to 
it!  All  right,”  says  he,  turnin’  to  the  Mayor,  an’  spittin’ 
on  his  fist.  Put  it  there,”  says  King  John,  howldin’  out 
his  hand. 

So  the  Mayor  spit  in  his  own  fist,  an’  the  pair  shuk 
hands  quite  cordial. 

All  would  have  gone  well  then  but  for  the  iligant 
beard  an’  whiskers  the  Mayor  wore.  The  sighth  of  them 
fairly  tormented  King  John,  an’  the  bla’guard  broke  out 
in  him  again  as  he  looked  at  his  worship  an’  saw  him 
sthrokin’  the  fine  silky  hairs  Avhich  (savin’  your  presence) 
nearly  shut  out  the  view  of  the  honest  man’s  stomach. 

“ I ’ll  take  me  oath  ’t  is  a wig,”  says  the  King  to  him- 
self; “an’  faith  if  the  wig  isn’t  stuck  mighty  fast  to  his 
chin  the  tug  I ’ll  give  it  will  soon  laive  it  in  fragments  on 
the  deck.” 

So  the  King  goes  over  to  the  Mayor  an’  purtended  to  be 
admirin’  the  beautiful  goold  chain  his  worship  carried 
round  his  neck,  an’  while  a cat  would  be  lickin’  her  ear  he 
gives  the  beard  such  an  onmerciful  dhrag  that  he  tore  a 
fistful  of  it  clane  out  of  the  dacent  man’s  chin. 

The  Mayor  set  up  a screech — an’  small  blame  to  him — 
that  you ’d  hear  from  this  to  Mullinavat,  an’  begor  the 
crowd  ashore  thought  ’t  was  bein’  murdhered  he  was ; so 
King  John,  fearin’  the  Corporation  might  thry  to  sink  him- 
self an’  the  ship  if  they  knew  he  was  afther  damagin’  their 
mayor,  thought  ’t  was  the  best  of  his  play  to  knuckle 


904 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


undlier  at  wance.  He  begs  the  Mayor’s  pardon  in  a mortial 
funk,  an’  saj^s  he  to  him,  We ’d  best  be  gettin’  ashore  im- 
majertlj  the  both  of  us.” 

The  poor  Mayor  of  coorse  couldn’t  afford  to  show  timper 
agen  a king,  so  brushin’  the  scaldin’  tears  off  his  cheek  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  pocket  his  pride;  but  at  the  same  time 
says  he  to  himself,  “ I ’ll  tache  this  unmannerdly  cub  a 
lesson  before  he ’s  many  hours  ouldher.” 

All  right,  your  majesty,”  says  he,  aloud,  to  the  King, 

I quite  agrees  wud  you  that  ’t  is  betther  the  pair  of  us 
should  go  ashore  at  wance;  but  come  here,”  says  he,  takin’ 
King  John  to  the  bulwarks  of  the  ship  an’  pointin’  over 
the  side.  Now  I ax  you,”  says  he,  how  are  you  to  get 
ashore  wud  at  laiste  a fut  of  wather  inside  the  little  vessel 
still,  an’  fifty  yards,  more  or  less,  of  dirty  soft  mud  fore- 
nenst  you?  ” 

Begcr,  the  King  seemed  puzzled  at  this;  but  he  knew 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  for  the  crowd  ashore  was  be- 
ginnin’  to  grow  bigger,  and  it  was  aisy  to  see  that  throuble 
was  brewin’,  for  a few  of  the  quay  boys  were  peltin’  an 
odd  pavin’-stone  at  the  ship.  I lave  it  to  you,  Misther 
Mayor,”  says  he ; but  whatever  you  do,  don’t  keep  me 
standin’  here  in  the  cowld,  for  I have  a wake  chest,  an’  my 
inside  is  complately  out  of  ordher  afther  the  voyage.” 

^^Begor!  ” says  the  Mayor,  dodgin’  a box  of  a pavin 
stone  that  came  aboord  that  minute,  I dunno  what ’s 
best  to  be  done.  You ’d  get  your  death  if  you  wor  to 
thramp  it  ashore  in  them  patent  leather  boots  of  yours. 
I ’ll  tell  you  what  I ’ll  propose,”  says  he. 

That ’s  what  I ’m  waitin’  for  you  to  do,”  says  the  King, 
intherruptin’  him;  an’  if  you  don’t  be  quick  about  it, 
maybe ’t  is  hit  wud  a stone  I ’ll  be,  an’  in  that  case,”  says 
he,  “ ’t  will  be  me  duty  as  a king  to  bombard  the  city  wud 
cannon-balls.  D’  ye  mind  me  now?  ” says  he,  beginnin’  to 
show  timper  agen. 

“ I do,”  says  the  Mayor.  Sure,  if  you  didn’t  take  the 
words  out  of  my  mouth,  I was  goin’  to  say  that  I ’d  carry 
you  safe  ashore  on  my  OAvn  two  showldhers.” 

Very  well,”  says  King  John;  but  if  you  wish  for 
paice  an’  quietness  you ’d  betther  stir  your  stumps  quick, 
for  I tell  you  I won’t  stand  here  to  be  made  a cockshot  of 
by  these  Watherford  bla’guards.” 


EDMUND  DOWNEY, 


905 


Come  on,  thin,’’  says  the  Mayor. 

So  wud  that  the  sailors  fixed  what  they  calls  a cradle,  an’ 
a few  frinds  of  the  King  lifted  him  up  on  the  showlders  of 
the  Mayor,  an’  down  the  pair  wor  lowered  into  the  little 
wash  of  wather  inside  the  ship. 

Howld  a tight  grip  of  me  now,”  says  the  Mayor,  makin’ 
a start;  “ for ’t  is  an  onsartin  sort  of  a journey.  There ’s 
a dale  of  shiftin’  sands  about  here,  an’  if  I wor  to  make  a 
false  step  or  lose  my  bearin’s,  maybe  they ’d  never  hear  of 
your  majesty  again  in  England;  p’raps ’t  is  swallowed  up 
in  the  mud  the  pair  of  us  ’ud  be,  an’  I have  a heavy  family 
dependin’  on  me.” 

I ’ll  keep  a sturdy  grip,”  says  the  King;  an’  for  your 
own  sake,  an’  the  sake  of  your  heavy  family,  I ’d  recom- 
mend you  to  pick  your  steps  as  if ’t  was  threadin’  on  eggs 
you  wor.” 

Never  fear,”  says  the  mayor.  Is  the  crown  fixed  firm 
on  your  head?  ” 

’T  is,”  says  King  John. 

The  raison  I axed  you,”  says  the  Mayor,  “ is  that  I 
thought  ’t  was  a thrifie  too  big  for  you.  I noticed  it  wob- 
blin’ about  on  your  head  afther  you  came  up  from  the 
cabin.” 

Well,  to  tell  you  the  thruth,  an’  ’t  isn’t  often  I do  the 
like,”  says  the  King,  I didn’t  laive  my  measure  for  that 
crown ; but  I ’ve  rowled  a sthrip  of  newspaper  inside  the 
rim  of  it,  an’  it  doesn’t  fit  at  all  bad  now,”  says  he,  shakin’ 
his  head,  an’  fixin’  an  eye-glass  into  his  eye. 

‘‘  Did  you  buy  it  ready-made?  pardon  me  for  axin’,”  says 
the  Mayor. 

No,”  says  King  John ; but  it  belonged  to  my  big 
brother,  Richard.” 

I ’ve  heard  tell  of  him,”  says  the  Mayor.  The  ^ Lion 
Heart’  they  called  him,  wasn’t  it?” 

“It  was,”  says  King  John;  “but  between  yerself  and 
meself  ” — for  he  was  mighty  jealous  of  his  brother,  an’ 
indeed,  he  hadn’t  a good  word  to  throw  to  a dog — “ ’t  was 
a ^ thrick  ’ lion  he  tore  the  heart  out  of.” 

“Is  that  so?  ” says  the  Mayor. 

“ ’T  is,”  says  King  John.  “ You  see,”  says  he,  “ himself 
an’  Blondin  wor  great  chums  intirely,  an’  Blondin  bein’  a 


circus  man — ' 


o — Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


906 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


I know,”  intherrupted  the  Mayor.  He  crossed  over 
the  Falls  of  Niagry  on  a rope,  didn’t  he?  ” 

He  did,”  says  King  John.  ’T  is  round  his  neck  I ’d 
like  to  have  had  the  rope,  for ’t  is  an  onaisey  time  of  it  he 
gave  meself  be  rescuin’  my  brother.  I made  sure  they ’d 
cooked  his  goose  in  that  Austrian  castle,  but  nothin’  would 
suit  his  chum  Blondin,  if  you  plaize,  except  whistlin’  some 
of  his  ould  circus  tunes  outside  the  walls,  until  the  King 
of  Austria  let  him  in.  Well,  Blondin  brought  in  a thrick 
lion  wud  him  that  he  used  to  be  showin’  off  at  the  fairs. 
^ Look  here,’  says  he  to  the  King  of  Austria,  ^ that  man 
you  ’re  keepin’  down  in  the  cellar  is  a match  for  a lion.’ 
‘ Prove  it,’  says  the  King  of  Austria.  ‘ I will,’  says  Blon- 
din. ‘ Well,  take  the  muzzle  off  yer  baste,’  says  the  King 
of  Austria,  ^ an’  let  the  pair  of  ’em  have  a fair  stand-up 
fight;  an’  if  King  Richard. bates  the  lion  I ’ll  give  him  his 
liberty.’  ‘ Done ! ’ says  Blondin ; so  wud  that  he  brings 
the  lion  down  into  the  cellar,  an’  of  coorse  my  brother 
knew ’t  Avas  only  an  ould  painted  jackass  without  a tooth 
in  his  head,  so  he  makes  Avan  grab  at  the  unfortunate  ani- 
mal an’  tore  the  heart  clane  out  of  him.” 

Oh,  murdher  I ” says  the  Mayor.  An’  that ’s  why 
the;^'  call  him  the  ^ Lion  Heart,’  is  it?  ” 

It  is,”  says  King  John. 

An’  what ’s  that  they  calls  yerself  ? ” says  the  Mayor, 
who  knew  AA^ell  that  King  John  didn’t  like  to  be  reminded 
of  the  nickname  he  AA^as  known  undher  in  the  English 
Coorts,  an’  Avanted  to  take  a rise  out  of  him  on  the  quiet. 

I ’ll  tell  you  what,  my  bucko,”  says  King  John,  for  he 
felt  the  Mayor  all  of  a thremble  undher  him,  an’  he  knew 
it  was  smotherin’  a laugh  in  his  sleeve  he  was,  I ’ll  tell 
you  what,  my  bucko,”  says  he,  “ you ’d  betther  give  me 
none  of  your  sauce.  Only  for  the  onnathural  way  I ’m 
placed  noAv,  perched  up  here  like  a canary-bird,  I ’d  soon 
let  you  know  who  you  wor  thryin’  to  poke  your  fun  at. 
D’  je  mind  me  now?  ” 

‘‘  Begonnies ! ” says  the  Mayor,  ’t  is  no  fun,  I can  tell 
you,  to  be  endeavorin’  to  get  safe  ashore  wud  such  a pre- 
cious load  on  me  shoAvlders.  If  yer  Majesty  thinks  ’t  is 
for  a lark  I ’m  carryin’  you,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  ’re 
intirely  mistaken.  Oh  murdher ! ” says  he,  dhroppin’  on 
wan  knee,  but ’t  is  into  a boghole  we  are ! ” 


EDMUND  DOWNEY. 


907 


Of  coorse  he  knew  there  wasn’t  a boghole  wudin  a mile 
of  him,  but  he  wanted  to  divart  the  King’s  mind  from 
what  he  was  afther  sayin’  about  his  nickname,  for ’t  is  in 
dhread  he  was  that  maybe  he  was  carryin’  the  joke  too  far. 

Boghole!”  bawls  the  King,  nearly  jumpin’  out  of  his 
skin  wud  the  fright.  Let  me  down,  you  scoundhrel,” 
says  he.  I see  now  that ’t  is  a thraisonable  plot  you  have 
agen  me  afther  all.  I wondhered  why  it  was  you  worn’t 
makin’  a sthraight  coorse  for  the  firm  shore.” 

An’  sure  enough  the  Mayor  had  gone  a dale  out  of  his 
road  just  in  ordher  to  have  a rise  out  of  King  John,  to  pay 
him  off  for  havin’  given  his  beard  the  tug. 

The  pair  of  ’em  wor  now  standin’  close  to  the  mouth  of 
the  Pill,  an’  the  mud  all  round  was  as  soft  as  butthermilk, 
an’  the  poor  Mayor  was  more  than  half-way  up  to  his 
knees  in  it;  but  he  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground,  an’ 
wasn’t  in  the  laiste  danger  of  dhread  of  himself.  Of  coorse, 
if  King  John  fell  from  his  showlders  there  ’ud  be  an  end 
of  him,  for  he ’d  rowl  down  into  the  wathers  of  the  Pill 
before  the  Mayor  could  have  time  to  get  a grip  of  him. 

Go  straight  for  the  shore  this  minute,  I command  you,” 
says  the  King. 

The  Mayor  saw  that  his  Majesty  was  in  a fair  rage,  so 
he  made  up  his  mind  not  to  plaj'  any  more  thricks  on  him 
but  to  make  a short  cut  through  the  mud  to  the  Corpora- 
tion. 

Howld  your  grip  now,”  says  he,  givin’  the  King  a sud- 
den hoist  to  straighten  him  on  his  back;  an’  before  the 
words  wor  well  out  of  his  mouth  oft  tumbles  King  John’s 
crown  an’  down  it  rowls  into  the  Pill. 

Oh  murdher ! ” says  the  mayor,  forgettin’  himself  com- 
plately,  an’  going  to  dhrop  the  King  into  the  mud.  ’T  is 
lost  the  crown  is ! There ’s  twenty  fut  of  wather  there  if 
there ’s  an  inch,  an’  there  isn’t  a diver  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  would  take  a headher  into  it,  the  wathers  are  that 
filthy ! ” 

What  are  you  doin’,  you  ruffian?  ” screams  the  King, 
catchin’  a grip  of  the  Mayor’s  whisker  wud  wan  hand  an’ 
of  the  goold  chain  wud  the  other.  Dhrop  me  at  the  peril 
of  your  life,  you  onnathural  monsther,”  says  he. 

‘‘An’  what  about  the  crown?”  says  the  Mayor,  thryin’ 
to  take  the  King’s  fist  out  of  his  whiskers. 


908 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Let  it  go  to  Jericho ! ’’  says  King  John. 

" ’T  wouldn’t  be  the  first  time  ’t  was  there,  anyhow,” 
says  the  Mayor,  who  was  fond  of  his  joke. 

’T  is  a quare  man  you  are,”  says  King  John,  thryin’  to 
smother  a laugh ; but  go  on,  3^011  bla’guard,”  says  he,  an’ 
put  me  on  dhry  land  at  wance,  an’  no  more  of  your  thricks.” 
Never  fear ! ” says  the  Mayor ; an’  I hopes  we  ’re  none 
the  worst  f rinds  afther  all ’s  said  an’  done.” 

None  the  worse,”  says  King  John,  only  we  ’ll  be 
betther  frinds  as  soon  as  you  land  me  in  a hard  spot.” 

So  the  Mayor  put  his  best  fut  forward  an’  in  a few  min- 
utes himself  an’  the  King  were  shakin’  hands  wud  the  Cor- 
poration. 

You  ’ll  catch  your  death  of  cowld,”  says  the  Mayor  to 
King  John,  “ if  you  stand  there  much  longer  wudout  your 
crown.  Have  you  any  objection,”  says  he,  to  wearin’  my 
hat  for  a spell  until  they  have  time  to  forge  a new  figure- 
head for  3"OU?  ” 

Not  the  laiste  objection  in  life,”  says  King  John,  fixin’ 
the  Mayor’s  hat  on  his  head.  But ’t  is  dhry  work,  shakin’ 
hands,  boys,”  says  he,  addhressin’  the  crowd  assembled  on 
the  quay ; so  the  sooner  we  shapes  our  coorse  for  the  near- 
est shebeen  the  betther  I ’ll  like  it,  at  any  rate.” 

Bravo ! ” says  the  Corporation,  startin’  a procession 
wud  King  John  at  the  head  of  ’em  an’  a fife  an’  dhrum  band 
from  Ballybricken  follyin’  up  in  the  rear. 

Well,  to  cut  a long  story  short.  King  John  whin  he  was 
laivin’  Watherford  made  a present  of  his  borrowed  caubeen 
to  the  Corporation;  an’  if  you  doubts  my  word  you  can 
go  down  to  the  Town  Hall  any  day  an’  ax  to  see  King 
John’s  hat,  an’  the  Mayor’s  secrethary  will  show  you  the 
self-same  wan  that  King  John  got  the  loan  of  from  the 
ould  anshent  Mayor — an’  a very  dilapidated  speciment 
of  head  gear  it  is  too. 

That ’s  the  true  story  of  how  King  John  lost  his  crown 
in  the  wash  of  the  Pill,  as  the  little  sthrame  is  called ; an’ 
sure ’t  is  known  as  John’s  Pill  to  this  day. 


EDMU^S^D  DOWNEY. 


909 


EALEIGH  IN  MUNSTER. 

Many  generations  ago  there  appeared  at  the  English 
Coort  a young  fellow  by  the  name  of  Walther  Roily.  He 
was  a darin’  soger  an^  a darin’  navigathor,  but  wud  all  his 
navigatin^  an^  sogerin^he  could  never  keep  his  mind  off 
the  money.  Day  an^  night  he  was  always  dhramein’  of 
goold;  an^  nothing  was  too  hot  or  too  heavy  for  him  so 
long  as  there  was  goold  at  the  bottom  of  the  job.  Wan 
minute  he  M go  an^  discover  a new  counthry  out  in  the 
bowels  of  the  unknown  says,  an’  another  minute  he ’d  start 
an’  knock  the  daylights  out  of  the  French  army  or  the 
Spanish  Armady.  O ! he  was  a darin’  man  altogether  an’ 
no  mistake ; but  the  money,  as  I ’ve  towld  you,  was  always 
in  his  mind. 

Of  course  he  didn’t  do  his  thravelin’  an’  sogerin’  for 
nothing,  but  he  found  ’t  wasn’t  aisy  at  all  to  make  a big 
fortune,  the  Coort  had  so  many  pickin’s  out  of  everything. 
Aich  an’  every  man  in  the  Coort  was  bustin’  wud  jealousy 
of  young  Walther,  an’  of  course  they  all  used  their  enday- 
vors  to  cut  Roily’s  share  down  to  the  lowest  penny  whin- 
ever  he  brought  a cargo  of  diamonds  into  port,  or  nabbed 
a threasure-ship  from  the  King  of  Spain. 

Well,  wan  day  Roily  was  walkin’  along  the  sthreets  of 
London,  turnin’  over  some  new  plan  for  shovelin’  in  the 
coin,  whin  what  does  he  see  but  Eleezabeth,  the  Queen  of 
all  England,  pickin’  her  steps  across  the  road ! 

’T  was  a muddy  day,  an’  crossin’-sweepers,  I ’m  towld, 
worn’t  invinted  in  that  time,  so  Roily,  seein’  her  Majesty’s 
shoes  wor  rather  slendher  in  the  soles,  an’  that  the  mud 
was  stickin’  to  ’em  like  wax,  rushes  over  to  her,  whips  off 
his  cloak,  an’  axes  her  to  make  a door-mat  of  it.  Eleeza- 
beth just  looked  at  him  for  wan  minute,  an’  sure  enough 
she  recognized  him. 

Roily ! ” says  she,  wipin’  her  boots  on  the  cloak. 

The  same,  your  Majesty,  at  your  sarvice,”  says  he, 
kneelin’  down  on  wan  knee  as  if  to  pick  up  his  cloak,  but 
ralely  wud  the  intintion  of  remindin’  Eleezabeth  that  now 
was  her  chance  to  make  a knight  of  him  aisy. 

Her  Majesty  looks  at  him  out  undher  the  corners  of  her 
eyes,  an’  it  sthruck  her  more  than  ever  what  a handsome 
young  chap  this  Roily  was,  an’  begor,  says  she  to  herself, 


910 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


he  seems  a rale  Coort  gintleman,  an’  maybe  I ’m  doin’ 
wrong  in  bein’  so  bitther  agen  the  men  ” — for  you  must 
know  Queen  Eleezabeth  was  teetotally  opposed  to  mathri- 
mony.  All  the  single  kings  in  Europe,  an’  all  the  princes 
an’  lords  at  her  own  Coort  ’ud  be  only  too  aiger  to  lade 
her  to  the  althar,  but  she  wouldn’t  look  at  wan  of  ’em  at 
any  price.  However,  this  young  Roily  tuk  her  fancy  all  of 
a suddint,  an’  she  ups  wud  her  umbrella  an’  there  an’  then 
she  hits  him  a whack  of  it  on  the  showldher,  an’  says  she, 
Rise  up,  Sir  Walther  Roily — an’  call  a covered  car  for 
me ! ” 

So  Roily  did  as  he  was  towld  an’  he  didn’t  forget  to  pick 
up  his  cloak  aither.  “ Send  that  to  the  wash,”  says  Queen 
Eleezabeth ; an’  I ’ll  see  that  you  gets  a new  cloak  out  of 
the  royal  wardrobe,  for  ’t  was  a very  gintlemanly  act  to 
spread  it  undher  the  soles  of  my  feet.” 

All  right,  your  Majesty,”  says  Roily,  openin’  the  door 
of  the  covered  car,  an’  helpin’  her  into  it. 

Come  up  to  the  Coort,”  says  she,  afther  taytime,  an’ 
I ’ll  have  a talk  wud  you  about  a job  that  I think  ’ud  suit 
you  complately.” 

I will,”  says  Roily,  wud  the  greatest  of  pleasure ; an’ 
’t  is  much  obliged  to  you  I am  for  makin’  a knight  of  me.” 

Don’t  mintion  it,”  says  she.  An’  then  the  car  druv  off 
towards  the  Palace. 

The  same  evenin’  Roily  dhresses  himself  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  an’  fixes  rings  all  over  his  fingers,  an’  puts  into 
his  scarf  a beautiful  new  pin  he ’d  snatched  out  of  a Span- 
ish prince’s  shirt,  an’  afther  oilin’  his  hair,  and  spillin’  a 
dhrop  of  scent  on  his  han’kerchief,  he  starts  off  for  the 
Palace  an’  was  shown  up  to  the  Queen’s  apartments. 

Well,  Sir  Walther,”  says  Queen  Eleezabeth,  “ I ’ve 
been  makin’  enquiries  about  you,  an’  I ’m  towld  you  ’re  on 
the  look-out  for  a job.  Is  that  so?  ” 

It  is,”  says  he. 

What  sort  of  a job  ’ud  you  like?  ” says  she. 

Anything  that  ’ll  pay,”  says  he. 

Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  Ireland  in  your  thravels?  ” 
axes  the  Queen. 

I did,  thin ; but  at  the  present  moment  I couldn’t  give 
you  the  bearin’s  of  it,  though  if  you  axed  where  any  part 


EDMVl^D  DOWNEY. 


911 


of  Afrikay  or  Amerikay  was,  I could  tell  you  right  off  the 
exact  lie  of  it  by  the  compass.^^ 

Sthrange,’^  says  she,  you  never  ventured  to  Ireland ! ’’ 

I ^na  towld  there  ^s  no  money  there, says  he. 

Well,  there  isn’t  many  goold  mines  in  it,”  says  the 
Queen,  wud  a laugh ; for  we  Ve  been  squeezin’  ’em  purty 
dhry  since  my  ancesthor,  ould  Henery  the  Second,  grabbed 
the  counthry.  But  wud  all  that,”  says  she,  there ’s 
dodges  of  makin’  money  there  if  you  only  goes  the  right 
way  about  it.” 

I hear ’t  is  an  unsettled  sort  of  a place,”  says  Roily. 

’T  is,”  says  the  Queen ; an’  that ’s  what  I ’m  dhrivin’ 
at  just  now.  You’re  not  particular  what  you  do?”  says 
she. 

No,  thin,”  says  he.  I ’m  a purty  hard  case  by  this, 
an’  if  it ’s  murdher  you  mane,  I ’m  the  boy  for  flourishin’ 
the  swoord.” 

Well,”  says  the  Queen,  I didn’t  exactly  mane  that 
whin  I axed  you  the  questhion.  Are  you  too  proud  to  go 
into  thrade ! ” 

’Deed,  thin,  I ’m  not,”  says  Roily ; an’  if  it ’s  the 
bacon  thrade  you  mane,”  says  he,  which  I ’ve  heard  tell 
is  the  main  stay  of  Ireland,  I ’m  not  at  all  averse  to  goin’ 
into  the  pig  line,  on  a royal  license.” 

No,”  says  the  Queen.  “ That ’s  too  paceful  a thrade 
for  me.” 

An’  what  is  it  you  ’re  dhrivin’  at?  ” axes  Roily,  seein’ 
that  her  Majesty  was  seemin’ly  afeard  to  come  out  straight 
off  wud  her  plan.  I towld  you  nothing  was  out  of  my 
line  so  long  as  I could  see  money  at  the  end  of  it.” 

“ Very  well,”  says  the  Queen.  I ’ll  put  my  plans  before 
you.  I ’m  advised  that  very  little  ’ud  rise  a rebellion  agen 
me  in  Munsther,  so  if  you  likes  to  go  over  an’  stir  up  the 
craychurs  there,  you ’d  have  no  throuble  in  slaughtherin’ 
’em.” 

An’  I suppose,”  says  Roily,  intherruptin’  her  Majesty, 
you ’d  give  me  so  much  a head  for  the  job — but  where 
does  the  thrade  come  in?  ” 

You  ’re  runnin’  away  wud  the  story,”  says  she.  You 
see  this  is  how  it  is.  I ’ve  lately  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it ’s  dangerous  to  go  on  slaughtherin’  the  Irish  wud- 
out  buryin’  ’em  aftherwards.  A pestilence  is  like  enough 


912 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


to  break  out,  an^  maybe  a strong  westberly  win^  ^ud  carry 
that  same  over  into  this  counthry;  so  my  idaya  is  to  put 
all  the  corpses  into  coffins,  an’  bury  ’em  dacently.  Now 
this  is  what  I ’m  goin’  to  offer  you,  so  pay  attention. 
Roily,”  says  the  Queen. 

I ’m  doin’  that,”  says  he,  dhrawin’  his  eyebrows  very 
hard  together. 

Go  over  to  Munsther,”  sa^^s  she,  an’  I ’ll  make  you 
a prisent  of  forty  thousand  acres  of  land.” 

‘‘  What ’s  on  the  land?  ” axes  Roily. 

Tember,”  says  she.  Fine  hardy  threes,  I ’m  towld. 
Now  if  you  starts  the  Irish  into  a livel}^  rebellion  in  your 
disthrict,  you  can  set  up  a facthory  an’  do  the  undhertakin’ 
wholesale,  for  I wouldn’t  ax  a knight  to  do  it  by  retail.” 

I see,”  says  he,  grinnin’.  A nod  is  as  good  as  a wink 
to  a blind  horse,  ma’am.  An’  so  it ’s  an  undhertaker  you 
wants  to  make  of  me?  ” 

It  is,”  says  she : a Gentleman-Undhertaker.” 

An’  how  much  will  you  allow  me?  ” axes  Roily. 

Two  pound  a coffin,”  says  she ; an’  the  bigger  the  bill 
is,  the  betther  I ’ll  like  it.” 

‘‘  When  ’ll  I start?  ” says  he. 

As  soon  as  I can  get  the  ordher  made  out  for  the  forty 
thousand  acres,”  answers  the  Queen. 

You  ’re  sure  there ’s  plenty  of  tember  on  the  estate?  ” 
says  he. 

‘‘  Sartin,”  says  she.  I can  show  you  the  survey  of  it 
before  you  signs  the  conthract  wud  me.” 

’T  wouldn’t  pay,  you  know,”  says  he,  if  the  wood 
wasn’t  handy.” 

I know  that,”  says  she.  And  now  I ’ll  be  dismissin’ 
you,  for  it ’s  growin’  late,  an’  I have  a character  to  lose.” 

I hope  you  ’ll  never  lose  it  on  my  account,”  says  Roily, 
who  had  a nate  way  of  turnin’  his  words.  An’  wud  that  he 
makes  a low  bow  an’  walks  out  of  the  room  as  graceful  as 
a dancin’-masther. 

The  next  day,  afther  signin’  his  conthract  an’  gettin’ 
the  ordher  for  the  forty  thousand  acres  of  land,  off  starts 
Sir  Walther  for  Ireland  wud  a hundred  sogers  to  help  him 
out  in  the  job  he  had  in  hand.  lie  landed  afther  a good 
voyage  in  the  harbor  of  Cork,  an’  at  wance  he  put  matthers 
in  thrain. 


j^Di¥Z7iYD  DOWl^EY. 


913 


Afther  buildin’  a bit  of  a fort  as  a kind  of  a back-door 
to  the  ocean,  he  tuk  a jauntin’  car  an’  thraveled  down  to 
Youghal,  where  he  thought  he ’d  make  his  headquarters  an’ 
start  the  facthory.  He  had  some  throuble  in  the  beginnin’ 
findin’  journeymen  undhertakers,  but  of  coorse  he  spun 
a yarn  to  ’em  about  the  good  he ’d  do  the  counthry  by  in- 
throducin’  home-manufacture;  an’  at  last  he  got  a suffi- 
cient number  of  hands  together,  an’  thin  the  work  began  in 
airnest.  He  felled  the  threes  in  all  directions,  an’  he  got 
up  a saw-mill;  an’  soon  Kolly  had  the  whole  town  of 
Youghal  busy,  wan  way  or  another,  at  the  coffin  thrade. 

Whin  all  was  in  full  swing  he  dhrives  back  to  his  fort, 
an’  gives  his  insthructions  to  his  men. 

I ’m  goin’,”  says  he,  to  take  command  of  all  the 
throops  in  Cork  barracks,  an’  as  soon  as  they  ’re  ready, 
then  I ’ll  order  ’em  out  of  the  city  an’  get  ’em  to  scour  the 
Province  of  Munsther  clane.  There ’s  a dale  of  varmint  in 
the  shape  of  natives  gathered  together  in  parts  of  the 
counthry,  an’  we  ’ll  massacray  ’em  so  far  as  we  can.  Now 
to  all  ye  that  I brought  wud  me  I have  this  advice  to  give : 
don’t  put  yerselves  into  danger.  Let  the  other  throops 
have  the  first  go-in  at  the  inemy,  an’  when  they  ’re  done 
wud  ’em,  let  ye  finish  ’em  off  complately,  for  of  coorse 
there  ’ll  be  a dale  of  ’em  only  half  kilt.  We  ’re  partly  on  a 
paceful  mission  here,  an’  thrade  is  what  we  ’re  lookin’  for, 
not  glory.  The  hundhred  of  ye  must  get  up  a conthrivance 
for  cartin’  the  corpses  to  the  facthory  in  Youghal,  where 
we  ’ll  put  ’em  into  good  conthract  coffins  an’  give  ’em  a 
dacent  bury  in’.  I was  towld  yestherday,”  says  he,  that 
at  a neighborin’  fort  there  was  a crowd  of  Tallyans,  an’ 
I intinds  to  have  the  first  thry  at  the  furriners,  by  way  of 
practice.” 

Well,  in  the  coorse  of  a week  Roily  got  things  into 
shape,  an’  out  he  marches,  with  the  fightin’  throops  in  the 
front  an’  the  thradin’  throops  in  the  rear,  agen  this  fort 
tlie  Tallyans  wor  howldin.’  The  poor  craychurs  of  fur- 
riners, men,  women,  an’  childer,  whin  they  saw  the  great 
army  bearin’  down  on  ’em,  sent  a flag  of  thruce  up  to  the 
mast-head  of  the  fort  an’  axed  for  a parlez-vous,  but  dick- 
ens a parlez-vous  Roily  would  give  ’em,  an’  while  you ’d 
be  lookin’  about  you,  he  had  the  whole  place  sthrewn  wud 
corpses ; an’  when  the  front  army  got  tired  of  massacrayin’ 


914 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


the  furriners,  his  own  hundhred  men  went  in,  just  as  he 
had  towld  ^em,  and  finished  off  the  wounded. 

Six  hundhred  corpses  they  gothered  up  that  day  an^ 
carted  into  Youghal;  an’  Roily  was  in  high  feather  as  he 
stood  at  the  facthory  gate  tallyin’  the  coffins  as  they  wor 
carried  out  an’  heaved  into  a neighborin’  thrench. 

I ’ll  make  a clane  five  hundhred  pound  on  that  job,” 
says  he.  If  I can  keep  up  this  game,  I ’ll  soon  be  able  to 
write  home.” 

An’  sure  enough,  keep  it  up  he  did,  an’  the  facthory  was 
in  full  swing  for  a long  spell;  an’  then  he  bethought  him 
that  Queen  Eleezabeth  ’ud  like  to  hear  how  he  was  gettin’ 
on,  so,  bein’  a great  hand  at  the  pen,  he  sat  down  wan  day 
an’  sent  her  otf  a long  letther,  which  to  the  best  of  my 
memory  was  written  this  way : — 

May  it  plaize  your  Majesty,  Queen  Eleezabeth. 

I write  these  few  lines,  hopin’  they  will  find  you  in 
good  liealth,  as  this  laives  me  at  prisent. 

I ’m  gettin’  on  grand  here.  I suppose  the  head-clerk 
of  your  Coort  has  towld  you  that  I ’m  billin’  him  for  a 
thousand  coffins  a week  on  the  average.  I ’m  sorry  to  say 
there  isn’t  as  much  profit  on  the  job  as  I expected,  an’  I ’m 
sadly  afeard  my  foreman  is  chaytin’  me  on  the  putty  ac- 
count, but  if  I only  catches  him  playin’  thricks  on  me,  you 
may  depind  I ’ll  include  him  in  the  coffin  bill  purty  quick. 
He ’s  a native  of  these  parts,  an’  ’t  isn’t  clear  to  me  he  isn’t 
risin’  a rebellion  among  the  facthory  hands  agen  me. 

This  is  a mighty  poor  counthry.  I ’ve  prodded  it  in  all 
parts  for  goold  an’  diamonds,  but  there  isn’t  as  much  as  a 
scuttle  of  coal  to  be  found  anywhere  in  it. 

I met  a man  the  other  day  that  lives  over  beyant  here, 
by  the  name  of  Spinser.  He  tells  me  yerself  an’  himself 
knows  aich  other,  an’  often  I rides  over  to  his  place  in  the 
cool  of  the  evenin’,  an’  we  haves  a talk  over  the  gay  doin’s 
at  the  London  Coort.  He ’s  writin’  a long  ballad  now,  an’ 
between  ourselves  he  nearly  dhrives  me  crazy  at  times 
dhronin’  long  rigmaroles  of  his  own  writin’  into  my  ears; 
but  I ’m  goin’  to  have  my  revinge  agen  him  wan  of  these 
fine  days  by  bringin’  over  a ballad  I ’m  writin’  meself,  an’ 
maybe  when  he ’s  had  a few  hours  of  it  he  ’ll  come  to  his 
sinses. 


EDMV^W  DOWNEY. 


915 


An^  now  I ’ll  be  sayin’  good  by,  so  no  more  at  prisent 
from  your  faithful  Undhertaker, 

Sir  Walther  Rolly. 

P.  S. — If  things  goes  on  as  they  promise,  I ’ll  have  to 
start  a gas-ingine  here  purty  soon.” 


ELLEN  MARY  PATRICK  DOWNING. 

(1828—1869.) 

Ellen  Downing,  known  as  “ Mary  of  The  Nation,^'  was  born  in 
Cork,  March  19,  1828.  She  first  wrote  over  her  initials,  and  after- 
ward signed  her  verses  “Mary.”  She  contributed  also  to  The 
United  Irishman  and  to  The  Corh  Magazine.  She  ‘ ‘ formed  an  at- 
tachment,” writes  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan,  “to  one  of  the  ‘ Young  Ire- 
land ’ writers.  In  Forty-eight  he  became  a fugitive.  Alas  ! in 
foreign  climes  he  learned  to  forget  home  vows.  Mary  sank  under 
the  blow.  She  put  by  the  lyre,  and  in  utter  seclusion  from  the 
world  lingered  for  a while  ; but  ere  long  the  spring  flowers  blossomed 
on  her  grave.”  She  died  in  a convent,  where  she  had  taken  the 
name  of  Sister  Mary  Alphonsus,  in  1869. 

Her  poems  are  simple  and  graceful,  and  many  of  them  full  of 
devout  feeling. 

Only  two  collections  of  them  have  been  published  : ‘ Voices  of 
the  Heart  ’ and  ‘ Poems  for  Children .’ 

MY  OWEN. 

Proud  of  you,  fond  of  you,  clinging  so  near  to  you, 

Light  is  my  heart  now  I know  I am  dear  to  you ! 

Glad  is  my  voice  now,  so  free  it  may  sing  to  you 
All  the  wild  love  that  is  burning  within  for  you ! 

Tell  me  once  more,  tell  it  over  and  over. 

The  tale  of  that  eve  that  first  saw  you  my  lover. 

Now  I need  never  blush 
At  my  heart’s  hottest  gush ; 

The  wife  of  my  Owen  her  heart  may  discover. 

Proud  of  you,  fond  of  you,  having  all  right  in  you ! 
Quitting  all  else  through  my  love  and  delight  in  you ! 

Glad  is  my  heart,  since ’t  is  beating  so  nigh  to  you ! 

Light  is  my  step,  for  it  always  may  fly  to  you ! 

Clasped  in  your  arms,  v here  no  sorrow  can  reach  to  me, 
Reading  your  eyes  till  new  love  they  shall  teach  to  me, 
Though  wild  and  weak  till  now, 

By  that  blessed  marriage  vow. 

More  than  the  wisest  know  your  heart  shall  preach  to  me. 


TALK  BY  THE  BLACKWATER. 

Faint  are  the  breezes,  and  pure  is  the  tide. 
Soft  is  the  sunshine,  and  you  by  my  side ; 
916 


ELLEN  MARY  PATRICK  DOWNINC. 


is  just  such  an  evening  to  dream  of  in  sleep; 

’T  is  just  such  a joy  to  remember  and  weep; 

Never  before  since  you  called  me  your  own 
Were  you,  I,  and  nature  so  proudly  alone — 
Cushlamachree,  A is  blessed  to  be 

All  the  long  summer  eve  talking  to  thee. 

Dear  are  the  green  banks  we  wander  upon ; 

Dear  is  our  own  river,  glancing  along; 

Dearer  the  trust  that  as  tranquil  will  be 
The  tides  of  the  future  for  you  and  for  me ; 

Dearest  the  thought,  that,  come  weal  or  come  woe. 
Through  storm  or  through  sunshine  together  they  ’ll  flOTV 
Cushlamachree,  ’t  is  blessed  to  be 

All  the  long  summer  eve  thinking  of  thee. 

Yon  bark  o’er  the  waters,  how  swiftly  it  glides ! 

My  thoughts  cannot  guess  to  what  haven  it  rides ; 

As  little  I know  what  the  future  brings  near; 

But  our  bark  is  the  same,  and  I harbor  no  fear; 
Whatever  our  fortunes,  our  hearts  will  be  true; 
Wherever  the  stream  flows ’t  will  bear  me  with  you — 
Cushlamachree,  ’t  is  blessM  to  be 

Summer  and  winter  time  clinging  to  thee. 


JAMES  WARREN  DOYLE. 


(1786—1834.) 

Dr.  Doyle,  “ the  incomparable  J.  K.  L.,”  as  Matthew  Arnold 
called  him,  was  born  in  1786  in  the  town  of  New  Ross,  County  Wex- 
ford. His  father  died  when  he  was  quite  young,  leaving  his  mother 
in  poverty.  When  he  was  eleven  years  old  he  watched  from  be- 
hind a hedge  the  battle  of  New  Ross.  In  1800,  he  was  placed  under 
the  care  of  the  Rev.  John  Crane,  an  Augustine  monk.  With  him 
he  spent  two  years,  and  in  1805  entered  the  convent  of  Granstown, 
near  Carnsore  Point  in  Wexford,  where  in  1806  he  took  the  vows. 
He  afterward  studied  for  two  years  in  the  University  of  Coimbra 
in  Portugal. 

While  there  he  was  called  upon  to  take  part  in  the  Peninsular 
war,  and,  being  acquainted  with  the  Portuguese  language,  was  em- 
ployed by  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  as  confidential  agent  and  to  com- 
municate with  the  Portuguese  government.  In  this  capacity  Doyle 
acquitted  himself  well,  and  after  the  defeat  of  the  French  the 
Portuguese  government  recognized  his  diplomatic  talent  and  re- 
ceived him  with  honor  at  court.  Brilliant  prospects  were  also  held 
out  to  induce  him  to  embrace  a political  career,  but  he  remained 
firm  to  his  original  purpose  of  devoting  himself  to  the  ministry. 

He  returned  to  Ireland  in  1808,  and  was  ordained  a priest.  After 
about  three  years  in  his  convent  his  learning  and  ability  became 
known,  and  he  was  appointed  in  1813  professor  of  rhetoric  and 
afterward  of  theology  in  Carlow  College.  An  anecdote  is  related 
in  connection  with  his  appointment.  He  was  introduced  to  Dean 
Staunton,  the  President.  “What  can  you  teach?”  inquired  the 
Dean.  “Anything,”  replied  Doyle,  “from  A B C to  the  ‘ Third 
Book  of  Canon  Law.’  ” The  President  did  not  altogether  like  the 
confidence  of  the  answer,  and  he  rejoined  : “ Pray,  young  man, 
can  you  teach  and  practice  humility?”  “I  trust  I have  at  least 
the  humility  to  feel,”  answered  Doyle,  “ that  the  more  I read  the 
more  I see  how  ignorant  I have  been,  and  how  little  can  at  best  be 
known.”  The  President  was  so  struck  with  the  reply  that  he  mused, 
“You  ’ll  do.” 

In  1819  he  was  nominated  to  the  bishopric  of  Kildare  and  Leigh- 
lin.  The  election  was  confirmed  at  Rome,  and,  although  he  was  a 
very  young  man  to  be  a bishop,  his  force  of  character  and  personal 
attention  to  his  various  parishes  soon  brought  about  a wonderful 
reformation  of  the  abuses  that  existed  in  many  of  them. 

Over  the  signature  of  “ J.  K.  L.”  (James  of  Kildare  and  Leigh- 
lin)  he  wrote  eloquent  letters  in  defense  of  his  Church,  aided  in  the 
circulation  of  the  Bible,  and  advocated  strongly  the  union  of  the 
Churches  of  Rome  and  England,  in  preference  to  the  Repeal,  which 
was  then  being  agitated  for.  His  letters  on  this  subject  caused  a 
great  sensation  at  the  time,  coming,  as  they  did,  from  a Roman 
Catholic  bishop.  He  was  also  a great  advocate  for  a united  system 

918 


JAMES  WARRE^^  DOYLE. 


919 


of  education  very  similar  to  the  Irish  national  system  of  education 
of  the  present  day.  In  1822  he  opposed  the  veto  ; and  in  1824  his 
statesmanlike  abilities  and  deep  knowledge  of  Irish  affairs  as  shown 
in  his  political  writings  was  so  widely  recognized  that  he  was  sum- 
moned to  attend  before  a committee  of  the  Lords  and  Commons  to 
be  examined  relative  to  the  state  of  affairs  in  Ireland.  At  this  time 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  asked  by  some  one  if  they  were  ex- 
amining Doyle.  He  replied,  “ No,  but  Doyle  is  examining  us.” 

His  evidence,  given  during  several  days,  was  so  much  appreciated, 
and  excited  so  much  gratitude  among  his  countrj^men,  that  on  his 
return  a residence  about  a mile  from  Carlow  was  purchased  and 
presented  to  him  as  a token  of  their  esteem.  In  1825  he  wrote 
twelve  letters  on  the  state  of  Ireland,  followed  by  a letter  addressed 
to  Lord  Liverpool  on  Catholic  claims.  For  years  he  continued  the 
eloquent  champion  of  these  claims,  and  proved  they  might  be 
defended  both  logically  and  reasonably,  an  entirely  new  revelation 
for  the  majority  of  Englishmen  and  Protestants. 

His  consistent  self-denial  and  anxious  labor  of  mind  and  body 
told  heavily  upon  him  ; and  when  he  died,  June  16,  1834,  aged  only 
forty-eight  years,  his  appearance  was  more  that  of  an  old  man 
than  of  one  in  the  prime  of  life.  His  remains  were  interred  in  the 
central  aisle  of  the  Cathedral  of  Carlow,  which  he  had  built,  and  the 
funeral  was  attended  by  more  than  twenty  thousand  people.  His 
last  literary  work  was  a preface  to  Butler’s  ‘ Lives  of  the  Saints.’ 

‘ The  Life,  Times,  and  Correspondence  of  Dr.  Doyle,’  by  Mr.  Fitz- 
patrick, is  an  admirable  and  discriminating  biography  and  a graphic 
picture  of  the  times  in  which  the  eloquent  prelate  lived. 


THE  TRUE  FRIENDS  OF  THE  POOR  AND  THE 

AFFLICTED. 

A PICTURE  OF  SUFFERING  IRELAND. 

From  ‘ Letters  on  the  State  of  Ireland.’ 

I am  laboring  as  the  advocate  of  the  poor,  of  the  unpro- 
tected, and  of  the  distressed.  I can  ask  with  Cicero  how 
could  I fail  to  be  interested  in  the  general  agitation  of 
religious  and  political,  civil  and  ecclesiastical  interests; 
or  how  could  I be  insensible  to  the  generous  impulse 
of  our  nature?  St.  Paul  himself  exclaims:  Quis  infir- 

matur  et  ego  non  infirmor^  qiiis  scandilizatur  et  ego  non 
uror.”  In  every  nation  a clergyman  is  separated  from 
society  only  that  he  may  labor  the  more  efficiently  for  his 
fellow-men,  and  his  duty  of  administering  to  their  tem- 
poral wants  is  not  less  pressing  than  that  of  devoting  him- 


920 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


self  to  their  spiritual  concerns.  The  one  ought  to  be  done 
by  him,  and  the  other  ought  not  to  be  neglected. 

There  are  times  and  circumstances  when  he  is  justified, 
nay,  when  he  is  obliged,  to  mix  with  his  fellow-countrymen, 
and  to  suspend  his  clerical  functions  whilst  he  discharges 
those  of  a member  of  society.  I myself  have  once  been 
placed  in  such  circumstances,  and  devoted  many  a labo- 
rious hour  to  the  service  of  a people  engaged  in  the  defense 
of  their  rights  and  liberties.  The  clerical  profession  exalts 
and  strengthens  the  natural  obligation  we  are  all  under 
of  laboring  for  our  country’s  welfare;  and  the  priests  and 
prophets  of  the  old  law  have  not  only  announced  and  ad- 
ministered the  decrees  of  Heaven,  but  have  aided  by  their 
counsel  and  their  conduct  the  society  to  which  Providence 
attached  them.  In  the  Christian  dispensation  priests  and 
bishops  have  greatly  contributed  to  the  civilization  and 
improvement  of  mankind;  they  have  restrained  ambition, 
they  have  checked  turbulence,  they  have  enlightened  the 
councils  of  kings,  and  infused  their  own  wisdom  into 
laws  and  public  institutions.  Arts  and  sciences  are  their 
debtors ; history  and  jurisprudence  have  been  cultivated  by 
them.  They  have  been  the  teachers  of  mankind,  and  have 
alone  been  able  to  check  the  insolence  of  power,  or  plead 
before  it  the  cause  of  the  oppressed. 

The  clergy  of  the  Catholic  Church  have  been  accused  of 
many  faults;  but  in  no  nation  or  at  no  time — not  even  by 
the  writers  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth — have  they 
been  charged  with  betraying  this  sacred  trust,  or  embez- 
zling the  property  of  the  poor.  In  Ireland,  above  all,  where 
their  possessions  were  immense,  their  hearts  were  never 
corrupted  by  riches;  and,  whether  during  the  incursions 
of  the  Danes,  or  the  civil  wars,  or  foreign  invasions,  which 
desolated  the  country,  it  was  the  clergy  who  repaired  the 
ravages  that  were  committed,  rebuilt  cities  and  churches, 
restored  the  fallen  seats  of  literature,  gave  solemnity  to 
the  divine  worship,  and  opened  numberless  asylums  for  the 
poor.  Whilst  Ireland,  though  a prey  to  many  evils,  was 
blessed  with  such  a clergy,  her  poor  required  no  extraor- 
dinary aid;  the  heavenly  virtue  of  charity  was  seen  to 
walk  unmolested  over  the  ruins  of  towns  and  cities,  to 
collect  the  wanderer,  to  shelter  the  houseless,  to  support 
the  infirm,  to  clothe  the  naked,  and  to  minister  to  every 


JAMES  WARREN  DOYLE. 


921 


species  of  human  distress ; but  “ fuit  Ilium  et  ingens  gloria 
Dardanidum!  ” 

When  the  ancient  religion  was  expelled  from  her  pos* 
sessions,  and  another  inducted  in  her  place,  the  church 
and  the  hospital  and  the  cabin  of  the  destitute  became 
alike  deserted,  or  fell  into  utter  ruin.  This  change,  with 
the  others  which  accompanied  or  followed  after  it,  in 
Ireland  threw  back  all  our  social  and  religious  institutions 
into  what  is  generally  called  a state  of  nature — a state, 
such  as  Hobbes  describes  it,  in  which  men  are  always  arm- 
ing or  engaged  in  war.  Clergymen,  so-called,  still  ap- 
peared amongst  their  fellow-men,  but  they  were  no  longer 
of  the  seed  of  those  by  whom  salvation  had  been  wrought 
in  Israel  they  did  not  consider  it  a portion  of  their  duty 
to  be  employed  in  works  of  mercy,  or  to  devote  the  prop- 
erty which  had  passed  into  their  hands  to  those  sacred 
purposes  for  which  it  was  originally  destined.  They  were 
like  the  generality  of  mankind,  solely  intent  on  individual 
gain,  or  the  support  or  aggrandizement  of  their  families, 
but  totally  regardless  of  those  sublime  virtues  or  exalt- 
ed charities  which  the  Gospel  recommends.  They  found 
themselves  vested  with  a title  to  the  property  of  the  poor ; 
they  did  not  stop  to  inquire  whether  they  held  it  in  trust; 
there  was  no  friend  to  humanity  who  would  impeach  them 
for  abuse,  and  they  appropriated  all,  everything  to  which 
they  could  extend  their  rapacious  grasp.  The  churches 
were  suffered  to  decay,  and  the  spacious  cloister  or  tower- 
ing dome  through  which  the  voice  of  prayer  once  resound- 
ed became  for  a while  the  resort  of  owls  and  bats,  till  time 
razed  their  foundations  and  mixed  up  their  ruins  with  the 
dust.  The  poor  were  cast  out  into  the  wilderness,  and 
left,  like  Ishmael,  to  die;  whilst  Ireland,  like  the  afflicted 
mother  of  the  rejected  child,  cast  her  last  sad  looks  towards 
them,  and  then  left  them  to  perish.  These  men  ate  the 
milk,  and  clothed  themselves  with  the  wool,  and  killed 
that  which  was  fat;  but  the  flock  they  did  not  feed,  the 
weak  they  did  not  strengthen,  and  that  which  was  sick 
they  did  not  heal,  neither  did  they  seek  for  that  which  was 
lost;  but  they  ruled  over  them  with  rigor  and  with  a high 
hand.’’  They  could  not  be  blamed;  they  had  a title  and 
a calling  different  from  their  predecessors;  and  the  state. 


922 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


from  which  they  derived  their  commission,  could  not  in- 
fuse into  them  virtues  which  can  only  emanate  from  Christ. 

The  evidence  already  given  to  Parliament  shows  that 
the  average  wages  of  a laboring  man  in  Ireland  (and  a 
great  mass  of  the  poor  are  laborers)  is  worth  scarcely 
THREEPENCE  A DAY ! Threepence  ^ a day  for  such  as  obtain 
employment,  whilst  in  a family  where  one  or  two  persons 
are  employed  there  may  be  four,  perhaps  six,  others  de- 
pendent on  these  two  for  their  support!  Good  God!  an 
entire  family  to  be  lodged,  clothed,  fed,  on  threepence  a 
day!  Less  than  the  average  price  of  a single  stone  of 
potatoes ; equal  only  to  the  value  of  a single  quart  of  oat- 
meal! What  further  illustration  can  be  required?  Why 
refer  to  the  nakedness,  to  the  hunger  of  individuals?  Why 
speak  of  parishes  receiving  extreme  unction  before  they  ex- 
pired of  hunger?  Why  be  surprised  at  men  feeding  on 
manure;  of  contending  with  the  cattle  about  the  weeds; 
of  being  lodged  in  huts  and  sleeping  on  the  clay ; of  being 
destitute  of  energy,  of  education,  of  the  virtues  or  qualities 
of  the  children  of  men?  Is  it  not  clear,  is  it  not  evident, 
that  the  great  mass  of  the  poor  are  in  a state  of  habitual 
famine,  the  prey  of  every  mental  and  bodily  disease?  Why 
are  we  surprised  at  the  specters  who  haunt  our  dwellings, 
whose  tales  of  distress  rend  our  hearts — at  the  distracted 
air  and  incoherent  language  of  the  wretched  father  who- 
starts  from  the  presence  of  his  famished  wife  and  children, 
and  gives  vent  abroad  in  disjointed  sounds  to  the  agony  of 
his  soul? 

How  often  have  I met  and  labored  to  console  such  a 
father!  How  often  have  I endeavored  to  justify  to  him 
the  ways  of  Providence,  and  check  the  blasphemy  against 
Heaven  which  was  already  seated  on  his  tongue!  How 
often  have  I seen  the  visage  of  youth,  which  should  be  red 
with  vigor,  pale  and  emaciated,  and  the  man  who  had 
scarcely  seen  his  fortieth  year  withered  like  the  autumn 
leaf,  and  his  face  furrowed  with  the  wrinkles  of  old  age! 
How  often  has  the  virgin,  pure  and  spotless  as  the  snow  of 
heaven,  detailed  to  me  the  miseries  of  her  family,  her  own 
destitution,  and  sought  through  the  ministry  of  Christ  for 
some  supernatural  support  whereby  to  resist  the  allure- 
ments of  the  seducer  and  to  preserve  untainted  the  dearest 

^ About  five  cents. 


JAMES  WARREN  DOYLE.. 


923 


virtue  of  her  soul ! But  above  all,  how  often  have  I viewed 
with  my  eyes,  in  the  person  of  the  wife  and  of  the  widow, 
of  the  aged  and  the  orphan,  the  aggregate  of  all  the  misery 
which  it  was  possible  for  human  nature  to  sustain!  And 
how  often  have  these  persons  disappeared  from  my  eyes, 
returned  to  their  wretched  abode,  and  closed  in  the  cold 
embrace  of  death  their  lives  and  their  misfortunes ! What 
light  can  be  shed  on  the  distresses  of  the  Irish  poor  by 
statements  of  facts  when  their  notoriety  and  extent  are 
known  throughout  the  earth? 

But  Ireland,  always  unhappy,  always  oppressed,  is  re- 
viled when  she  complains,  is  persecuted  when  she  struggles ; 
her  evils  are  suffered  to  corrode  her,  and  her  wrongs  are 
never  to  be  redressed ! We  look  to  her  pastures,  and  they 
teem  with  milk  and  fatness ; to  her  fields,  and  they  are  cov- 
ered with  bread ; to  her  fiocks,  and  they  are  as  numerous  as 
the  bees  which  encircle  the  hive ; to  her  ports,  they  are  safe 
and  spacious;  to  her  rivers,  they  are  deep  and  navigable; 
to  her  inhabitants,  they  are  industrious,  brave^  and  intelli- 
gent as  any  people  on  earth ; to  her  position  on  the  globe, 
and  she  seems  to  be  intended  as  the  emporium  of  wealth, 
as  the  mart  of  universal  commerce;  and  yet,  . . . but  no, 
we  will  not  state  the  causes,  they  are  obvious  to  the  sight 
and  to  the  touch ; it  is  enough  that  the  mass  of  her  children 
are  the  most  wretched  of  any  civilized  people  on  the  globe. 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN. 

(1754—1820.) 

Dr.  Drennan,  who  first  gave  Ireland  the  name  of  “ The  Emerald 
Isle,”  was  born  in  Belfast  in  1754.  He  studied  medicine  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh  ; took  his  degree  of  M.D.  in  1778,  practiced 
for  some  years  in  Belfast  and  Newry,  and  removed  to  Dublin  in 
1789.  He  became  one  of  the  ablest  writers  in  favor  of  the  United 
Irishmen  movement,  and  his  ‘ Letters  of  Orellana  ’ had  much  to 
do  in  getting  Ulster  to  join  the  League. 

In  1794  he  and  Mr.  Rowan  were  put  on  trial  for  issuing  the 
famous  Address  of  the  United  Irishmen  to  the  Volunteers  of  Ire- 
land. Curran  defended  Rowan,  who  however  was  fined  in  £500 
($2,500)  and  sentenced  to  two  years’  imprisonment,  while  Dren- 
nan, who  was  the  real  writer  of  the  paper,  had  the  good  fortune  to 
be  acquitted.  He  afterward  removed  to  Belfast,  where  he  com- 
menced The  Belfast  Magazine.  In  1815  he  issued  a little  volume 
entitled  ‘ Glendalough,  and  other  Poems,’  which  is  now  very  rare. 
He  died  in  February,  1820. 

Mr.  D.  J.  O’Donoghue,  in  ‘ A Treasury  of  Irish  Poetry,’  considers 
his  verses  “ perhaps  rhetoric  rather  than  poetry,  but  the  rhetoric 
is  always  strong  and  sincere.”  They  are  certainly  vigorous  and 
graceful  ; and  his  hymns  possess  much  of  beauty.  Moore  is  said 
to  have  esteemed  ‘ When  Erin  First  Rose  ’ the  most  perfect  of  mod- 
ern songs.  His  ‘ Wake  of  William  Orr’  electrified  the  nation  or. 
its  appearance,  and  did  more  hurt  to  the  Government  than  the  loss 
of  a battle.  Mr.  O’Donoghue  considers  it  his  best  piece. 

ERIN. 

When  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood 
God  blessed  the  green  Island,  and  saw  it  was  good; 

The  ein’rald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone — 

In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious  stone. 

In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blest, 

With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West, 

Erin  stands  proudly  insular  on  her  steep  shore. 

And  strikes  her  high  harp  ^mid  the  ocean’s  deep  roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to  weep, 

The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o’er  the  deep; 

At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from  her  eyes 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom  rise. 

Oh ! sons  of  green  Erin,  lament  o’er  the  time 
When  religion  was  war  and  our  country  a crime; 

When  man  in  God’s  image  inverted  His  plan. 

And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man ; 

924 


WILLIAM  DREHHAII. 


925 


When  the  interest  of  State  wrought  the  general  woe, 

The  stranger  a friend  and  the  native  a foe; 

While  the  mother  rejoiced  o’er  her  children  oppressed 
And  clasped  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast ; 

When  with  Pale  for  the  body  and  Pale  for  the  soul, 
Church  and  State  joined  in  compact  to  conquer  the  whole, 
And,  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian  blood, 

Eyed  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it  was  good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers’  grave 
For  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the  slave. 
Drive  the  demon  of  Bigotry  home  to  his  den, 

And  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Erin  make  men. 
Let  my  sons,  like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock,  unite — 

A partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right; 

Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky. 

Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas ! for  poor  Erin  that  some  are  still  seen 
Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to  Green : 
Yet,  oh!  when  you’re  up  and  they’re  down,  let  them  live, 
Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would  not  give. 
Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong ! but  be  gentle  as  brave ! 

And,  uplifted  to  strike,  be  as  ready  to  save ! 

Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  or  the  men  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true. 

And  the  Green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and  Blue! 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall  share 
With  the  full  swelling  chest  and  the  fair  flowing  hair. 
Their  bosom  heaves  high  for  the  worthy  and  brave. 

But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  soft-swelling  wave. 

Men  of  Erin ! awake,  and  make  haste  to  be  blest ! 

Rise,  Arch  of  the  Ocean  and  Queen  of  the  West ! 


THE  WAKE  OF  WILLIAM  ORR. 

There  our  murdered  brother  lies; 

Wake  him  not  with  woman’s  cries; 
Mourn  the  way  that  manhood  ought — 
Sit  in  silent  trance  of  thought. 


926 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Write  his  merits  on  your  mind ; 
Morals  pure  and  manners  kind ; 

In  his  head,  as  on  a hill, 

Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 

Why  cut  off  in  palmy  youth? 

Truth  he  spoke,  and  acted  truth. 

Countrymen,  unite,^^  he  cried. 

And  died  for  what  our  Saviour  died, 

God  of  peace  and  God  of  love! 

Let  it  not  Thy  vengeance  move — • 

Let  it  not  Thy  lightnings  draw — 

A nation  guillotined  by  law. 

Hapless  Nation,  rent  and  torn, 

Thou  wert  early  taught  to  mourn; 
Warfare  of  six  hundred  years! 

Epochs  marked  with  blood  and  tears! 

Hunted  thro’  thy  native  grounds. 

Or  dung  reward  to  human  hounds. 
Each  one  pulled  and  tore  his  share, 
Heedless  of  thy  deep  despair. 

Hapless  Nation!  hapless  Land! 

Heap  of  uncementing  sand! 

Crumbled  by  a foreign  weight: 

And  by  worse,  domestic  hate. 

God  of  mercy!  God  of  peace! 

Make  this  mad  confusion  cease; 

O’er  the  mental  chaos  move. 

Through  it  speak  the  light  of  love. 

Monstrous  and  unhappy  sight! 
Brothers’  blood  will  not  unite; 

Holy  oil  and  holy  water 

Mix,  and  fill  the  world  with  slaughter. 

Who  is  she  with  aspect  wild? 

The  widowed  mother  with  her  child — 
Child  new  stirring  in  the  womb ! 
Husband  waiting  for  the  tomb! 


WILLIAM  DRE^AlSf. 


927 


Angel  of  this  sacred  place, 

Calm  her  soul  and  whisper  peace — 
Cord,  or  axe,  or  guillotine. 

Make  the  sentence — not  the  sin. 

Here  we  watch  our  brother’s  sleep: 
Watch  with  us,  but  do  not  weep: 
Watch  with  us  thro’  dead  of  night — 
But  expect  the  morning  light. 

Conquer  fortune — persevere ! — 

Lo!  it  breaks,  the  morning  clear! 

The  cheerful  cock  awakes  the  skies, 
The  day  is  come — arise! — arise! 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN,  JR. 
(1802—1873.) 


Mr.  Drennan,  the  son  of  Dr.  Drennan,  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1802 
and  was  graduated  fr^m  Trinity  College  in  1823.  His  famous  bal- 
lad ‘ The  Battle  of  Beal-an-atha-buidh  ’ was  published  in  The  Nation 
in  1843  without  a name,  but  it  is  included  in  the  volume  entitled 
‘ Glendalloch  and  other  Poems,’  which  was  published  in  1850. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH.i 
11598. 

By  O’Neill  close  beleaguered,  the  spirits  might  droop 
Of  the  Saxon — three  hundred  shut  up  in  their  coop, 

Till  Bagenal  drew  forth  his  Toledo,  and  swore. 

On  the  sword  of  a soldier  to  succor  Portmore. 

His  veteran  troops,  in  the  foreign  wars  tried — 

Their  features  how  bronzed,  and  how  haughty  their  stride — 

Stept  steadily  on;  it  was  thrilling  to  see 

That  thunder-cloud  brooding  o’er  BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH. 

The  flash  of  their  armor,  inlaid  with  fine  gold, — 

Gleaming  matchlocks  and  cannons  that  mutteringly  rolled — 
With  the  tramp  and  the  clank  of  those  stern  cuirassiers. 

Dyed  in  the  blood  of  the  Flemish  and  French  cavaliers. 

And  are  the  mere  Irish,  with  pikes  and  with  darts — 

With  but  glib-covered  heads,  and  but  rib-guarded  hearts — 
Half-naked,  half-fed,  with  few  muskets,  no  guns — 

The  battle  to  dare  against  England’s  stout  sons? 

Poor  Bonnochts,^  and  wild  Gallowglasses,  and  Kern — 

Let  them  war  with  rude  brambles,  sharp  furze,  and  dry  fern; 
Wirrastriie  ^ for  their  wives — for  their  babies  ochaniei^ 

If  they  wait  for  the  Saxon  at  BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH. 

Yet  O’Neill  standeth  firm — few  and  brief  his  commands — 
Ye  have  hearts  in  your  bosoms,  and  pikes  in  your  hands ; 

^ Beal-an-atha-huidh  literally  means  the  Mouth  of  the  Yellow  Ford, 
and  is  pronounced  Beal-un-ath-hiiie. 

2 Bonnocht^  a billeted  soldier. 

3 Wirrastrue  {A  Mhuire  as  truagh),  Oh  ! Mary,  what  sorrow  I 
^ Ochanie — oclioney  woe. 


928 


WILLIAM  DRENAAA,  JR. 


929 


Try  how  far  ye  can  push  them,  my  children,  at  once ; 
Fag-a-Bealach!  ^ — and  down  with  horse,  foot,  and  great  guns. 

They  have  gold  and  gay  arms — they  have  biscuit  and  bread; 
Now,  sons  of  my  soul,  we  ’ll  be  found  and  be  fed ; ” 

And  he  clutched  his  claymore,  and — looli'  yonder,”  laughed 
he, 

Vrhat  a grand  commissariat  for  BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH.’^ 

Near  the  chief,  a grim  tyke,  an  O’Shanaghan  stood, 

His  nostrils  dilated  seemed  snuffing  for  blood; 

Rough  and  ready  to  spring,  like  the  wiry  wolf-hound 
Of  lern^,  who,  tossing  his  pike  vrith  a bound, 

Cried,  My  hand  to  the  Sassenach ! ne’er  may  I hurl 
Another  to  earth  if  I call  him  a churl ! 

He  finds  me  in  clothing,  in  booty,  in  bread — 

My  Chief,  won’t  O’Shanaghan  give  him  a bed?” 

Land  of  Owen,  aboo ! ” and  the  Irish  rushed  on — 

The  foe  fired  but  one  volley — their  gunners  are  gone; 

Before  the  bare  bosoms  the  steel-coats  have  fled, 

Or,  despite  casque  or  corslet,  lie  dying  and  dead. 

And  brave  Harry  Bagenal,  he  fell  while  he  fought 
With  many  gay  gallants — they  slept  as  men  ought; 

Their  faces  to  Heaven — there  were  others,  alack ! 

By  pikes  overtaken,  and  taken  aback. 

And  my  Irish  got  clothing,  coin,  colors,  great  store. 

Arms,  forage,  and  provender — plunder  go  leor!  2 
They  munched  the  white  manchets — they  champed  the  brown 
chine, 

Fiiilleluah!  ^ for  that  day,  how  the  natives  did  dine! 

The  Chieftain  looked  on,  when  O’Shanaghan  rose. 

And  cried,  Hearken,  O’Neill ! I ’ve  a health  to  propose — • 

‘ To  our  Sassenach  hosts  ’ ” and  all  quaffed  in  huge  glee. 

With  Cead  mile  failte  go  ^ BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH ! 

^ Fag-a-Bealach,  clear  the  vray. 

2 Go  leor,  in  abundance.  ® Fidlleluah,  joyous  exclamation. 

^ Cead  mile  failte  go,  a hundred  thousand  welcomes  to. 


7— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  DRUMMOND. 


(1778—1865.) 

William  Hamilton  Drummond  was  born  at  Larne,  County  Antrim, 
in  1778.  He  was  educated  at  Belfast  Academy  under  James  Crom- 
bie.  Later  he  entered  Glasgow  College  to  study  for  the  ministry, 
but  he  was  too  poor  to  finish  his  course.  He  did,  however,  study 
by  himself  and  entered  the  Church.  He  taught  or  preached 
throughout  his  life. 

He  was  a member  of  the  Roj^al  Irish  Academy  and  one  of  the 
first  members  of  the  Belfast  Literary  Society.  He  took  a scholarly 
interest  in  Celtic  literature.  In  mature  life  he  became  a polemic, 
and  his  writings  are  noted  for  sharpness  and  vivacity.  Of  these 
his  essay  on  the  ‘ Doctrine  of  the  Trinity  ’ is  the  best.  He  wrote 
much  poetry,  including  the  ‘ Battle  of  Trafalgar  ’ and  ‘ The  Giant’s 
Causeway,’  also  a work  on  ancient  Irish  minstrelsy.  He  died  in 
1865. 


ODE  WRITTEN  ON  LEAVING  IRELAND. 

From  the  Irish  of  Gerald  Nugent. 

What  sbrrow  wrings  my  bleeding  heart, 

To  flee  from  Innisfail ! 

Oh,  anguish  from  her  scenes  to  part, 

Of  mountain,  wood,  and  vale ! 

Vales  that  the  hum  of  bees  resound, 

And  plains  where  generous  steeds  abound. 

While  wafted  by  the  breeze’s  wing, 

I see  fair  Fintan’s  shore  recede. 

More  poignant  griefs  my  bosom  wring, 

The  farther  eastward  still  I speed. 

With  Erin’s  love  my  bosom  warms, 

No  soil  but  hers  for  me  has  charms. 

A soil  enriched  with  verdant  bowers. 

And  groves  with  mellow  fruits  that  teem; 

A soil  of  fair  and  fragrant  flowers. 

Of  verdant  turf  and  crystal  stream : 

Rich  plains  of  Ir,  that  bearded  corn. 

And  balmy  herbs,  and  shrubs  adorn. 

A land  that  boasts  a pious  race, 

A land  of  heroes  brave  and  bold ; 

930 


WILLIAM  HAiMILTON  DRUMMOND. 


931 


Enriched  with  every  female  grace 

Are  Banba’s  maids  with  locks  of  gold. 

Of  men,  none  with  her  sons  comxmre; 

No  maidens  with  her  daughters  fair. 

If  Heaven,  propitious  to  my  vow, 

Grant  the  desire  with  which  I burn, 

Again  the  foamy  deep  to  plow. 

And  to  my  native  shores  return ; 

‘‘  Speed  on,’’  1 ’ll  cry,  my  galley  fleet, 

Nor  e’er  the  crafty  Saxon  greet.” 

No  perils  of  the  stormy  deep 

I dread — yet  sorrow  wounds  my  heart; 

To  leave  thee,  Leogaire’s  fort,  I weep ; 
From  thee,  sweet  Delvin,  must  I part! 

Oh  ! hard  the  task — oh ! lot  severe. 

To  flee  from  all  my  soul  holds  dear. 

Farewell,  ye  kind  and  generous  bards. 
Bound  to  my  soul  by  friendship  strong; 

And  ye  Dundargvais’  happy  lands. 

Ye  festive  halls — ye  sons  of  song; 

Ye  generous  friends  in  Meath  who  dwell, 

Beloved,  adored,  farewell ! farewell ! 


LADY  DUFFERIN. 


(1807—1867.) 

Helen  Selina  Sheridan  was  born  in  1807.  She  was  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  and  granddaughter  of  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan.  She  was  brought  up  with  her  sisters,  the  Hon- 
orable Mrs.  Norton  (Lady  Stirling-Maxwell)  and  the  Duchess  of 
Somerset,  in  the  seclusion  of  Hampton  Court,  whither  her  mother 
had  retired  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Sheridan. 

Helen  inherited  the  genius  of  the  Sheridan  family,  and  enjoyed 
the  additional  advantage  of  sharing  Avith  her  sisters  the  careful 
training  of  a devoted  mother,  a lady  distinguished  by  her  good 
sense  and  intellectual  ability.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  married 
the  Hon.  Price  Blackwood,  afterward  Lord  Dufferin,  and  the  fol- 
lowing year  (1826)  became  the  mother  of  the  late  Earl  of  Dufferin, 
her  only  son. 

The  inheritor  and  transmitter  of  genius,  the  brilliant  mother  of  a 
brilliant  son,  hers  Avas  one  of  the  most  enviable  fates  for  the  poet 
and  artist.  To  hear  her  exquisitely  artless  songs  on  the  lips  of 
her  OAvn  people  was  Lady  Dufferin’s  happy  lot.  Her  ‘ Irish  Emi- 
grant ’ is  knoAAui  the  wide  Avorld  over,  and,  being  one  of  the  earli- 
est things  learned  by  Irish  school-children,  it  comes  to  share  in 
later  life  the  haunting  quality  which  belongs  to  memories  of  those 
dim  years  AA^hen  the  impressions  are  only  aAAmkening. 

The  benevolent  and  kindly  nature  of  Lady  Dufferin,  and  her  grace 
of  manner,  soon  secured  the  esteem  and  affection  of  the  people,  Avho 
felt  that  she  understood  and  sympathized  Avith  their  joys  and  sor- 
rows. Hence  the  popularity  of  her  ballads  and  songs,  which  were 
not  due  to  any  desire  for  literary  fame,  but  Avere  the  genuine  out- 
come of  a Avarm  and  sympathetic  spirit.  Of  all  her  pieces  ‘ The 
Irish  Emigrant’  is  the  universal  favorite.  Nothing  could  surpass 
its  simple  and  touching  pathos  and  fidelity  to  nature,  particularly 
Irish  nature,  and  on  it  alone  Lady  Dufferin’s  fame  as  a poet 
might  safely  rest.  ‘ Terence’s  FareAvell  ’ and  ‘ Katey’s  Letter,’  both 
rich  in  humor,  are  also  extremely  popular.  ‘ Sweet  Kilkenny  Town,’ 
a reply  to  ‘ Katey’s  Letter,’  set  to  music  by  the  authoress,  is  not, 
perhaps,  so  AAudely  knoAvn.  No  collection  of  her  ballads  and  poems 
has  been  made,  and  many  of  them  are  doubtless  lost,  only  the  most 
popular  having  been  preserA^ed  in  various  selections  of  Irish  poetry. 

She  also  produced  an  amusing  and  piquant  prose  Avork  entitled 
‘Tlie  Honorable  Impulsia  Gushington.’  It  is  a satire  on  high  life 
in  the  nineteenth  century.  Although  written  in  a light  and  humor- 
ous style,  her  ladyship  tells  us  in  the  preface  it  “was  intended  to 
serve  an  earnest  purpose  in  lightening  the  tedium  and  depression  of 
long  sickness  in  the  person  of  a beloved  friend.” 

In  1841  Lord  Dufferin  died,  and  her  ladyship  remained  a widow 
for  twenty-one  years,  when  she  married  the  Earl  of  Gifford,  at  the 
time  nearly  on  his  death-bed.  Two  months  afterward  she  became 
for  the  second  time  a AvidoAv,  and  Dowager  Countess  of  Gifford. 

932 


LADY  DUFFERIN. 


933 


For  some  years  previous  to  her  death  this  amiable  lady  was  afflicted 
with  a painful  illness,  which  she  endured  with  fortitude  and  resig- 
nation. She  expired  June  13,  1867,  leaving  a memory  dear  to  every 
Irish  heart. 

LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

I hii  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 

On  a bright  Ma}^  morn  in’,  long  ago. 

When  first  you  were  my  bride : 

The  corn  was  springin’  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high — 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  level ight  in  your  eye. 

The  is  little  changed,  Mary; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then; 

The  lark’s  loud  song  is  in  my  ear. 

And  the  corn  is  green  again; 

But  I miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek. 

And  I still  keep  list’nin’  for  the  words 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

’T  is  but  a step  down  yonder  lane. 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 

The  church  where  we  were  w^ed,  Mary ; 

I see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — • 

For  I ’ve  laid  you,  darling!  down  to  sleep 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I ’m  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends: 

But,  oh ! they  love  the  better  still. 

The  few  our  Father  sends ! 

And  you  were  all  I had,  Mary — 

My  blessin’  and  my  pride ! 

There ’s  nothin’  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

Tliat  still  kept  hoping  on 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And  my  arm’s  young  strength  was  gon3 ; 


934 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip 
And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 

I bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same. 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break. 

When  the  hunger-pain  was  gnawin’  there^ 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 

I bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word 
When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 

Oh ! I ’m  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can’t  reach  you  more ! 

I ’m  biddin’  you  a long  farewell. 

My  Mary — kind  and  true! 

But  I ’ll  not  forget  you,  darling. 

In  the  land  I ’m  goin’  to: 

They  say  there ’s  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I ’ll  not  forget  Old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 
I ’ll  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 

And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 
To  the  place  where  Mary  lies; 

And  I ’ll  think  I see  the  little  stile 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 

And  the  springin’  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


TERENCE’S  FAREWELL. 

So,  my  Kathleen,  you  ’re  going  to  leave  me 
All  alone  by  myself  in  this  place. 

But  I ’m  sure  you  will  never  deceive  me — 
Oh  no,  if  there ’s  truth  in  that  face. 
Though  England ’s  a beautiful  city. 

Full  of  illigant  boys — oh,  what  then? 

You  would  not  forget  your  poor  Terence; 
You  ’ll  come  back  to  Ould  Ireland  again. 


LADY  DUFFERIN, 


935 


Och,  those  English,  deceivers  by  nature, 

Though  maybe  you  M think  them  sincere, 

They  ’ll  say  you  ’re  a sweet  charming  creature, 
But  don’t  you  believe  them,  my  dear. 

No,  Kathleen,  agra!  don’t  be  minding 
The  flattering  speeches  they  ’ll  make ; 

Just  tell  them  a poor  boy  in  Ireland 
Is  breaking  his  heart  for  your  sake. 

It ’s  folly  to  keep  you  from  going. 

Though,  faith,  it ’s  a mighty  hard  case — 

For,  Kathleen,  you  know,  there ’s  no  knowing 
When  next  I shall  see  your  sweet  face. 

And  when  you  come  back  to  me,  Kathleen — • 
None  the  better  will  I be  off  then — 

You  ’ll  be  spaking  such  beautiful  English, 

Sure,  I won’t  know^  my  Kathleen  again. 

Eh,  now,  where ’s  the  need  of  this  hurry? 

Don’t  flutter  me  so  in  this  way ! 

I ’ve  forgot,  ’twixt  the  grief  and  the  flurry, 
Every  word  I was  maning  to  say. 

Now  just  wait  a minute,  I bid  ye — 

Can  I talk  if  you  bother  me  so  ? — 

Oh,  Kathleen,  my  blessing  go  wid  ye 
Ev’ry  inch  of  the  way  that  you  go. 


KATEY’S  LETTER. 

Och,  girls  dear,  did  you  ever  hear, 

I wrote  my  love  a letter? 

And  altho’  he  cannot  read, 

I thought ’t  was  all  the  better. 

For  why  should  he  be  puzzled 

With  hard  spelling  in  the  matter. 

When  the  maning  was  so  plain  ? 

That  I loved  him  faithfully, 

And  he  knows  it — oh,  he  knows  it — • 
Without  one  word  from  me. 

I wrote  it,  and  I folded  it, 

And  put  a seal  upon  it, 
was  a seal  almost  as  big 
As  the  crown  of  my  best  bonnet; 


936 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


For  I would  not  have  the  postmaster 
Make  his  remarks  upon  it, 

As  I M said  inside  the  letter 
That  I loved  him  faithfully, 

And  he  knows  it — oh,  he  knows  it— 
Without  one  word  from  me. 

My  heart  was  full,  but  when  I wrote 
I dare  not  put  it  half  in ; 

The  neighbors  know  I love  him. 

And  they ’ve  mighty  fond  of  chaffing, 

So  I dare  not  write  his  name  outside, 

For  fear  they  would  be  laughing. 

So  I wrote  From  little  Kate  to  one 
Whom  she  loves  faithfully,” 

And  he  knows  it — oh,  he  knows  it — 
Without  one  word  from  me. 

Now,  girls,  would  you  believe  it, 

That  postman,  so  consated, 

No  answer  will  he  bring  me. 

So  long  as  I have  waited; 

But  maybe — there  mayn’t  be  one, 

For  the  reason  that  I stated — 

That  my  love  can  neither  read  nor  write* 
But  loves  me  faithfully. 

And  I know  where’er  my  love  is, 

That  he  is  true  to  me. 


LORD  DUFFERIN. 


(1826—1902.) 

The  Right  Hon.  Frederick  Temple  Blackwood,  Earl  of  Dufferin, 
was  son  of  the  fourth  Baron  Dufferin,  and  was  born  in  1826.  His 
mother  was  the  granddaughter  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  and 
thus  he  was  one  more  of  the  long  list  of  the  Sheridans  who  have 
proved  that  wit  can  run  in  families.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and 
at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  but  did  not  take  a degree.  He  was  still 
a minor  when,  in  1841,  he  succeeded  to  his  father’s  title. 

His  first  literary  production  was  a narrative  of  a visit  he  made 
to  Ireland  during  1846-47,  under  the  title  of  ‘ Narrative  of  a Journey 
from  Oxford  to  Skibbereen  during  the  year  of  the  Irish  Famine.’ 

In  February,  1855,  he  formed  one  of  the  numerous  train  which 
accompanied  Lord  John  Russell  to  Vienna.  In  1860  appeared  the 
first  work  that  drew  particular  attention  to  his  name.  In  this  book 
there  is  abundant  evidence  of  those  great  gifts  of  humorous  obser- 
vation which  were  his  delightful  characteristic.  He  had  in  the 
previous  year  made  a voyage  in  his  yacht  to  Iceland,  and  an  ac- 
count of  his  stay  in  that  island  appeared  in  ‘ Letters  from  High 
Latitudes.’  This  book  bubbles  over  with  fun,  and  his  description 
of  an  Icelandic  dinner-party  can  be  read  by  few,  we  think,  without 
aching  sides. 

His  first  real  entrance  into  official  life  was  made  in  1860,  when 
he  was  sent  to  Syria  as  British  Commissioner,  for  the  purpose  of 
inquiring  into  cruelties  which  had  been  practiced  by  Turkish  of- 
ficials on  the  Christian  population.  He  pursued  his  investigations 
with  relentless  vigilance,  and  administered  condign  punishment  to 
the  most  notable  malefactors.  The  home  authorities  were  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  his  action,  and  he  was  made  a Knight  of  the  Bath. 
In  1864  he  became  for  a while  Under  Secretary  for  India,  and  dur- 
ing the  year  1866  he  acted  as  Under  Secretary  for  War. 

In  1868  Lord  Dufferin  was  made  Chancellor  of  the  Duchy  of  Lan- 
caster, an  office  with  undefined  duties,  which  constituted  him,  as 
he  wittily  described  it,  “maid  of  all  work”  to  the  Ministry.  In 
1872  he  was  appointed  Governor-General  of  Canada.  Never  was 
there  a more  successful  ruler.  The  Orangeman  and  the  Roman 
Catholic,  the  Conservative  and  the  Radical,  alike  bent  under  the 
influence  of  his  clear  judgment,  his  impartial  action,  his  pleasant 
manners,  and  his  bewitching  tongue.  The  speeches  which  he  made 
have  been  collected  into  volume  form,  and  they  can  be  read  with  a 
pleasure  that  one  rarely  experiences  when  perusing  spoken  addresses 
in  print.  Their  chief  characteristics  are  a lofty  tone  of  feeling, 
bright  wit,  and,  occasionally,  eloquence  of  a high  order.  On  his 
retirement  from  the  Canadian  governorship  he  was  chosen  by  Lord 
Beaconsfield  as  British  Ambassador  at  the  Court  of  St.  Petersburg. 
He  was  afterward  Ambassador  at  the  Ottoman  Court,  and  in  1884 
was  appointed  Governor-General  of  India.  He  was  Ambassador  to 

937 


938 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Italy  and  to  France.  From  1891  to  1895  he  was  Lord  Warden  of 
the  Cinque  Ports  and  Constable  of  Dover  Castle.  In  1890  he  was 
elected  Lord  Rector  of  St.  Andrews  University.  He  Avas  made  an 
Earl  of  the  United  Kingdom  in  1871,  was  President  of  the  Geo- 
gi’aphical  Society,  and  an  honorary  LL.D.  of  Harvard  UniAwsity. 

Besides  the  works  above  mentioned,  Lord  Dufferin  Avrote  sev- 
eral books  on  the  questions  that  chiefly  disturb  his  iiatiA^e  country. 
Their  titles  are  ‘ Irish  Emigration  and  the  Tenure  of  Land  in  Ire- 
land,’ ‘Mr.  Mill’s  Plan  for  the  Paciflcation  of  Ireland  Examined,’ 
and  ‘ Contributions  to  an  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Ireland.’ 

This  most  brilliant  Irishman  died,  to  the  regret  of  all  creeds  and 
parties,  in  1902. 


ON  IRISHMEN  AS  RULERS. 

A speech  deliA^ered  at  Quebec,  September  5,  1878. 

Gentlemen, — I hardly  know  in  what  terms  I am  to  reply 
to  the  address  I hn\e  just  listened  to,  so  signal  is  the  honor 
which  you  have  conferred  upon  me.  That  a whole  prov- 
ince, as  large,  as  important,  as  flourishing  as  many  a 
European  kingdom,  should  erect  into  an  embassy  the 
mayors  of  its  cities, — the  delegates  of  its  urban  and  rural 
municipalities, — and  dispatch  them  on  a journey  of  several 
hundred  miles,  to  convey  to  a humble  individual  like  my- 
self an  expression  of  the  personal  good-will  of  the  con- 
stituencies they  represent,  is  a circumstance  unparalleled 
in  the  history  of  Canada,  or  of  any  other  colony. 

To  stand  as  I now  do  in  the  presence  of  so  many  distin- 
guished persons,  who  have  put  themselves  to  great  personal 
inconvenience  on  my  account,  only  adds  to  my  embarrass- 
ment. And  yet,  gentlemen,  I cannot  pretend  not  to  be  de- 
lighted with  such  a genuine  demonstration  of  regard  on 
the  part  of  the  large-hearted  inhabitants  of  the  great  prov- 
ince in  whose  name  you  have  addressed  me;  for,  quite 
apart  from  the  personal  gratification  I experience,  you  are 
teaching  all  future  administrators  of  our  affairs  a lesson 
Avhich  you  may  be  sure  they  will  gladly  lay  to  heart,  since 
it  Avill  show  them  with  how  rich  a reAvard  you  are  ready  to 
pay  Avhatever  slight  exertions  it  may  be  Avithin  their  poAver 
to  make  on  your  behalf. 

And  when  in  the  history  of  your  Dominion  could  such  a 
proof  of  your  generosity  be  more  opportunely  shown?  A 
feAV  weeks  ago  the  heart  of  every  man  and  women  in  Can- 


LORD  DUFF  ERIN. 


939 


ada  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  intelligence,  not  only 
that  the  government  of  Great  Britain  was  about  to  send 
out  as  England’s  representative  to  this  country  one  of  the 
most  promising  among  the  younger  generation  of  our  pub- 
lic men,  but  that  the  Queen  herself  was  about  to  intrust  to 
the  keeping  of  the  people  of  Canada  her  own  daughter.  If 
you  desired  any  illustration  of  the  respect,  the  affection, 
the  confidence  with  which  you  are  regarded  by  your  fellow- 
subjects  and  by  your  sovereign  at  home,  what  greater  proof 
could  you  require  than  this,  or  what  more  gratifying,  more 
delicate,  more  touching  recognition  could  have  rewarded 
your  never-failing  love  and  devotion  for  the  mother  country 
and  its  ruler? 

But  though  Parliament  and  the  citizens  of  Canada  may 
well  be  proud  of  the  confidence  thus  reposed  in  them,  be- 
lieve me  when  I tell  you  that,  quite  apart  from  these  es- 
pecial considerations,  you  may  well  be  congratulated  on 
the  happy  choice  which  has  been  made  in  the  person  of 
Lord  Lome  for  the  future  Governor-General  of  Canada. 
It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  be  connected  all  my  life 
long  with  his  family  by  ties  of  the  closest  personal  friend- 
ship. Himself  I have  known,  I may  say,  almost  from  his 
boyhood,  and  a more  conscientious,  high-minded,  or  better 
qualified  viceroy  could  not  have  been  selected.  Brought 
up  under  exceptionally  fortunate  conditions,  it  is  needless 
to  say  he  has  profited  to  the  utmost  by  the  advantages 
placed  within  his  reach,  many  of  which  will  have  fitted  him 
in  an  especial  degree  for  his  present  post. 

His  public  school  and  college  education,  his  experience 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  his  large  personal  acquaintance 
with  the  representatives  of  all  that  is  most  distinguished 
in  the  intellectual  world  of  the  United  States,  his  literary 
and  artistic  tastes,  his  foreign  travel,  will  all  combine  to 
render  him  intelligently  sympathetic  with  every  phase  and 
aspect  of  your  national  life.  Above  all,  he  comes  of  good 
Whig  stock — that  is  to  say,  of  a family  whose  prominence 
in  history  is  founded  upon  the  sacrifices  they  have  made  in 
the  cause  of  constitutional  liberty.  When  a couple  of  a 
man’s  ancestors  have  perished  on  the  scaffold  as  martyrs 
in  the  cause  of  political  and  religious  freedom,  you  may  be 
sure  there  is  little  likelihood  of  their  descendant  seeking 
to  encroach,  when  acting  as  the  representative  of  the 


940 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Crown,  upon  the  privileges  of  Parliament  or  the  independ- 
ence of  the  people. 

As  for  your  future  princess,  it  would  not  become  me  to 
enlarge  upon  her  merits — she  will  soon  be  amongst  you, 
taking  all  hearts  by  storm  by  the  grace,  the  suavity,  the 
sweet  simplicity  of  her  manners,  life,  and  conversation. 
Gentlemen,  if  ever  there  was  a lady  who  in  her  earliest 
youth  had  formed  a high  ideal  of  what  a noble  life  should 
be — if  ever  there  was  a human  being  who  tried  to  make  the 
most  of  the  opportunities  within  her  reach,  and  to  create 
for  herself,  in  spite  of  every  possible  trammel  and  impedi- 
ment, a useful  career  and  occasions  of  benefiting  her  fellow- 
creatures,  it  is  the  Princess  Louise,  whose  unpretending 
exertions  in  a hundred  different  directions  to  be  of  service 
to  her  country  and  generation  have  already  won  for  her  an 
extraordinary  amount  of  popularity  at  home. 

When  to  this  you  add  an  artistic  genius  of  the  highest 
order,  and  innumerable  other  personal  gifts  and  accom- 
plishments, combined  with  manners  so  gentle,  so  unpre- 
tending, as  to  put  every  one  who  comes  within  reach  of 
her  influence  at  perfect  ease,  you  cannot  fail  to  understand 
that  England  is  not  merely  sending  you  a royal  princess  of 
majestic  lineage,  but  a good  and  noble  woman,  in  whom 
the  humblest  settler  or  mechanic  in  Canada  will  find  an 
intelligent  and  sympathetic  friend.  Indeed,  gentlemen,  I 
hardly  know  which  pleases  me  most,  the  thought  that  the 
superintendence  of  your  destinies  is  to  be  confided  to  per- 
sons so  worthy  of  the  trust,  or  that  a dear  friend  of  my  own 
like  Lord  Lome,  and  a personage  for  whom  I entertain  such 
respectful  admiration  as  I do  for  the  Princess  Louise, 
should  commence  their  future  labors  in  the  midst  of  a com- 
munity so  indulgent,  so  friendly,  so  ready  to  take  the  will 
for  the  deed,  so  generous  in  their  recognition  of  any  effort 
to  serve  them,  as  you  have  proved  yourselves  to  be. 

And  yet,  alas!  gentlemen,  pleasant  and  agreeable  as  is 
the  prospect  for  you  and  them,  we  must  acknowledge  there 
is  one  drawback  to  the  picture.  Lord  Lome  has,  as  I have 
said,  a multitude  of  merits,  but  even  spots  will  be  discov- 
ered on  the  sun,  and  unfortunately  an  irreparable,  and,  as 
I may  call  it,  a congenital  defect  attaches  to  this  appoint- 
ment. Lord  Lome  is  not  an  Irishman!  It  is  not  his  fault 
— he  did  the  best  he  could  for  himself — he  came  as  near  the 


LORD  DUFFERIX, 


941 


right  thing  as  possible  by  being  born  a Celtic  Highlander. 
There  is  no  doubt  the  world  is  best  administered  by  Irish- 
men. Things  never  went  better  with  us  either  at  home  or 
abroad  than  when  Lord  Palmerston  ruled  Great  Britain — 
Lord  Mayo  governed  India — Lord  Monck  directed  the  des- 
tinies of  Canada — and  the  Robinsons,  the  Kennedj^s,  the 
Laffans,  the  Callaghans,  the  Gores,  the  Ilennesys,  admin- 
istered the  affairs  of  our  Australian  colonies  and  West  In- 
dian possessions.  Have  not  even  the  French  at  last  made 
the  same  discovery  in  the  person  of  Marshal  MacMalion? 
But  still  we  must  be  generous,  and  it  is  right  Scotchmen 
should  have  a turn.  After  all,  Scotland  only  got  her  name 
because  she  was  conquered  by  the  Irish — and  if  the  real 
truth  were  known,  it  is  probable  the  house  of  Inverary 
owes  most  of  its  glory  to  an  Irish  origin.  Nay,  I will  go  a 
step  further — I would  even  let  the  poor  Englishman  take 
an  occasional  turn  at  the  helm — if  for  no  better  reason 
than  to  make  him  aware  how  much  better  we  manage  the 
business.  But  you  have  not  come  to  that  yet,  and  though 
you  have  been  a little  spoiled  by  having  been  given  three 
Irish  governor-generals  in  succession,  I am  sure  you  will 
find  that  your  new  viceroy^s  personal  and  acquired  quali- 
fications will  more  than  counterbalance  his  ethnological 
disadvantages. 

And  now,  gentlemen,  I must  bid  you  farewell.  Never 
shall  I forget  the  welcome  you  extended  to  me  in  every 
town  and  hamlet  of  Ontario  when  I first  came  amongst 
you.  It  was  in  traveling  through  your  beautiful  province 
I first  learned  to  appreciate  and  understand  the  nature 
and  character  of  your  destinies.  It  was  there  I first 
learned  to  believe  in  Canada,  and  from  that  day  to  this  my 
faith  has  never  wavered.  Nay,  the  further  I extended  my 
travels  through  the  other  provinces  the  more  deeply  my 
initial  impressions  were  confirmed;  but  it  was  amongst 
you  they  were  first  engendered,  and  it  is  with  your  smiling 
happy  hamlets  my  brightest  reminiscences  are  intertwined. 
And  what  transaction  could  better  illustrate  the  mighty 
changes  your  energies  have  wrought  than  the  one  in  which 
we  are  at  this  moment  engaged?  Standing,  as  we  do,  upon 
this  lofty  platform,  surrounded  by  those  antique  and  his- 
torical fortifications,  so  closely  connected  with  the  infant 
fortunes  of  the  colony,  one  cannot  help  contrasting  the 


942 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


present  scene  with  others  of  an  analogous  character  which 
have  been  frequently  enacted  upon  the  very  spot.  The 
early  Governors  of  Canada  have  often  received  in  Quebec 
deputies  from  the  very  districts  from  which  each  of  you 
have  come,  but  in  those  days  the  sites  now  occupied  by 
your  prosperous  towns,  the  fields  you  till,  the  rose-clad 
bowers,  and  trim  lawns  where  your  children  sport  in  peace, 
were  then  dense  wildernesses  of  primeval  forest,  and  those 
who  came  from  thence  on  an  errand  here  were  merciless 
savages,  seeking  the  presence  of  the  viceroy  either  to 
threaten  war  and  vengeance,  or  at  best  to  proffer  a treach- 
erous and  uncertain  peace.  How  little  could  Montmagny, 
or  Tracy,  or  Vaudreuil,  or  Frontenac,  have  ever  imagined 
on  such  occasions  that  for  the  lank  dusky  forms  of  the 
Iroquois  or  Ottawa  emissaries,  would  one  day  be  substi- 
tuted the  beaming  countenances  and  burly  proportions  of 
English-speaking  mayors  and  aldermen  and  reeves.  And 
now,  gentlemen,  again  good-bye.  I cannot  tell  you  how 
deeply  I regret  that  Lady  Dufferin  should  not  be  present 
to  share  the  gratification  I have  experienced  by  your  visit. 
Tell  your  friends  at  home  how  deeply  I have  been  moved 
by  this  last  and  signal  proof  of  their  good-will,  that  their 
kindness  shall  never  be  forgotten,  and  that  as  long  as  I 
live  it  will  be  one  of  the  chief  ambitions  of  my  life  to  ren- 
der them  faithful  and  effectual  service. 


AN  ICELANDIC  DINNER. 

From  ‘ Letters  from  High  Latitudes.’ 

Yesterday — no — the  day  before — in  fact  I forget  the 
date  of  the  day — I don’t  believe  it  had  one — all  I know  is, 
I have  not  been  in  bed  since, — we  dined  at  the  Governor’s; 
— though  dinner  is  too  modest  a term  to  apply  to  the  enter- 
tainment. 

The  invitation  was  for  four  o’clock,  and  at  half-past 
three  we  pulled  ashore  in  the  gig;  I,  innocent  that  I was, 
in  a well-fitting  white  waistcoat. 

The  Government  House,  like  all  the  others,  is  built  of 
wood,  on  the  top  of  a hillock ; the  only  accession  of  dignity 
it  can  boast  being  a little  bit  of  mangy  kitchen-garden  that 


LORD  DUFF  ERIN. 


943 


bangs  down  in  front  to  the  road,  like  a soiled  apron.  There 
was  no  lock,  handle,  bell,  or  knocker  to  the  door,  but  imme- 
diately on  our  approach  a servant  presented  himself,  and 
ushered  us  into  the  room  where  Count  Trampe  was  wait- 
ing to  welcome  us.  After  having  been  presented  to  his  wife 
we  proceeded  to  shake  hands  with  the  other  guests,  most 
of  whom  L already  knew ; and  I was  glad  to  find  that,  at 
all  events  in  Iceland,  people  do  not  consider  it  necessary 
to  pass  the  ten  minutes  which  precede  the  announcement 
of  dinner  as  if  they  had  assembled  to  assist  at  the  opening 
of  their  entertainer’s  will,  instead  of  his  oysters. 

The  company  consisted  of  the  chief  dignitaries  of  the 
island,  including  the  bishop,  the  chief-justice,  etc.,  etc., 
some  of  them  in  uniform,  and  all  with  holiday  faces.  As 
soon  as  the  door  was  opened  Count  Trampe  tucked  me 
under  his  arm — two  other  gentlemen  did  the  same  to  my 
two  companions — and  we  streamed  into  the  dining-room. 
The  table  was  very  prettily  arranged  with  flowers,  plate, 
and  a forest  of  glasses.  Fitzgerald  and  I were  placed  on 
either  side  of  our  host,  the  other  guests,  in  due  order,  be- 
yond. On  my  left  sat  the  rector,  and  opposite,  next  to  Fitz, 
the  chief  physician  of  the  island.  Then  began  a series  of 
transactions  of  which  I have  no  distinct  recollection;  in 
fact,  the  events  of  the  next  five  hours  recur  to  me  in  as 
great  disarray  as  reappear  the  vestiges  of  a country  that 
has  been  disfigured  by  some  deluge.  . . . 

I gather,  then,  from  evidence — internal  and  otherwise — 
that  the  dinner  was  excellent,  and  that  we  were  helped  in 
Benjamite  proportions;  but  as  before  the  soup  was  finished 
I was  already  hard  at  work  hob-nobbing  with  my  two 
neighbors,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  I should  remember  the 
bill  of  fare. 

With  the  peculiar  manners  used  in  Scandinavian  skoal- 
drinking I was  already  well  acquainted.  In  the  nice  con- 
duct of  a wine-glass  I knew  that  I excelled,  and  having 
an  hereditary  horror  of  heel-taps,  I prepared  with  a firm 
heart  to  respond  to  the  friendly  provocations  of  my  host. 
I only  wish  30U  could  have  seen  how  his  kind  face  beamed 
with  approval  when  I chinked  my  first  bumper  against  his, 
and  having  emptied  it  at  a draught,  turned  it  towards  him 
bottom  upwards  with  the  orthodox  twist.  Soon,  however, 
things  began  to  look  more  serious  even  than  I had  expected. 


944 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


I knew  well  that  to  refuse  a toast,  or  to  half  empty  your 
glass,  was  considered  churlish.  I had  come  determined  to 
accept  my  host's  hospitality  as  cordially  as  it  was  offered. 
I was  willing,  at  a pinch,  to  payer  cle  ma  personne;  should 
he  not  be  content  with  seeing  me  at  his  table,  I was  ready, 
if  need  were,  to  remain  under  it ! but  at  the  rate  we  were 
then  going  it  seemed  probable  this  consummation  would 
take  place  before  the  second  course:  so,  after  having  ex- 
changed a dozen  rounds  of  sherry  and  champagne  with  my 
two  neighbors,  I pretended  not  to  observe  that  my  glass 
had  been  refilled ; and,  like  the  sea-captain,  who,  slipping 
from  between  his  two  opponents,  left  them  to  blaze  away 
at  each  other  the  long  night  through, — withdrew  from  the 
combat. 

But  it  would  not  do;  with  untasted  bumpers  and  de- 
jected faces  they  politely  waited  until  I should  give  the 
signal  for  a renewal  of  /lostilities,  as  they  well  deserved 
to  be  called.  Then  there  came  over  me  a horrid,  wicked 
feeling.  What  if  I should  endeavor  to  floor  the  Governor, 
and  so  literally  turn  the  tables  on  him ! It  is  true  I had 
lived  for  five-and-twenty  years  without  touching  wine, — 
but  was  not  I my  great-grandfather's  great-grandson,  and 
an  Irish  peer  to  boot!  Were  there  not  traditions,  too, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  of  casks  of  claret  brought 
up  into  the  dining-room,  the  door  locked,  and  the  key 
thrown  out  of  the  window?  With  such  antecedents  to  sus- 
tain me,  I ought  to  be  able  to  hold  my  own  against  the 
stanchest  toper  in  Iceland!  So,  with  a devil  glittering  in 
my  left  eye,  I winked  defiance  right  and  left,  and  away  we 
went  at  it  again  for  another  five-and-forty  minutes.  At 
last  their  fire  slackened : I had  partially  quelled  both  the 
Governor  and  the  rector,  and  still  survived.  It  is  true  I 
did  not  feel  comfortable;  but  it  was  in  the  neighborhood 
of  my  waistcoat,  not  my  head,  I suffered.  I am  not  well, 
but  I will  not  out,"  I soliloquized,  with  Lepidus — give 
me  the  wing,"  I would  have  added,  had  I dared.  Still  the 
neck  of  the  banquet  was  broken — Fitzgerald's  chair  was 
not  yet  empty, — could  we  hold  out  perhaps  a quarter  of  an 
hour  longer  our  reputation  was  established ; guess  then  my 
horror,  when  the  Icelandic  doctor,  shouting  his  favorite 
dogma  by  way  of  battle  cry,  Si  trigintis  guttis,  morbum 
curare  velis,  erras,"  gave  the  signal  for  an  unexpected  on- 


LORD  DUFF  ERIN. 


945 


slaught,  and  the  twenty  guests  poured  down  on  me  in  suc- 
cession. I really  thought  I should  have  run  away  from 
the  house;  but  the  true  family  blood,  I suppose,  began  to 
show  itself,  and,  with  a calmness  almost  frightful,  I re- 
ceived them  one  by  one. 

After  this  began  the  public  toasts. 

Although  up  to  this  time  I had  kept  a certain  portion  of 
my  wits  about  me,  the  subsequent  hours  of  the  entertain- 
ment became  henceforth  enveloped  in  a dreamy  mystery. 
I can  perfectly  recall  the  look  of  the  sheaf  of  glasses  that 
stood  before  me,  six  in  number;  I could  draw  the  pattern 
of  each : I remember  feeling  a lazy  wonder  they  should  al- 
ways be  full,  though  I did  nothing  but  empty  them, — and 
at  last  solved  the  phenomenon  by  concluding  I had  become 
a kind  of  Danaid,  whose  punishment,  not  whose  sentence, 
had  been  reversed : then  suddenly  I felt  as  if  I were  dis- 
embodied,— a distant  spectator  of  my  own  performances, 
and  of  the  feast  at  which  my  person  remained  seated.  The 
voices  of  my  host,  of  the  rector,  of  the  chief-justice,  became 
thin  and  low,  as  though  they  reached  me  through  a whis- 
pering tube;  and  when  I rose  to  speak  it  was  as  to  an  au- 
dience in  another  sphere,  and  in  a language  of  another 
state  of  being ; yet,  however  unintelligible  to  myself,  I must 
have  been  in  some  sort  understood,  for  at  the  end*  of  each 
sentence  cheers,  faint  as  the  roar  of  waters  on  a far-off 
strand,  floated  towards  me;  and  if  I am  to  believe  a report 
of  the  proceedings  subsequently  shown  us,  I must  have  be- 
come polyglot  in  my  cups.  According  to  that  report  it 
seems  the  Governor  threw  off  (I  wonder  he  did  not  do 
something  else),  with  the  queen’s  health  in  French,  to 
which  I responded  in  the  same  language.  Then  the  rector, 
in  English,  proposed  my  health, — under  the  circumstances 
a cruel  mockery, — but  to  which,  ill  as  I was,  I responded 
very  gallantly  by  drinking  to  the  beaux  yeux  of  the  Count- 
ess. Then  somebody  else  drank  success  to  Great  Britain, 
and  I see  it  was  followed  by  really  a very  learned  discourse 
by  Lord  D.  in  honor  of  the  ancient  Icelanders;  during 
which  he  alluded  to  their  discovery  of  America,  and  Co- 
lumbus’ visit.  Then  came  a couple  of  speeches  in  Ice- 
landic, after  which  the  bishop,  in  a magniflcent  Latin  ora- 
tion of  some  twenty  minutes,  a second  time  proposes  my 
health;  to  which,  utterly  at  my  wits’  end,  I had  the  au- 


946 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


dacity  to  reply  in  the  same  language.  As  it  is  fit  so  great 
an  effort  of  oratory  should  not  perish,  I send  you  some  of 
its  choicest  specimens : — 

Viri  illustres/’  I began,  insolitus  ut  sum  ad  pub- 
licum loquendum,  ego  propero  respondere  ad  complimen- 
tum  quod  recte  reverendus  prelaticus  mihi  fecit,  in  pro- 
ponendo  meam  salutem : et  supplico  vos  credere  quod 
multum  gratificatus  et  flattificatus  sum  honore  tarn  dis- 
tincto. 

Bibere,  viri  illustres,  res  est,  quae  in  omnibus  terris, 
^domum  venit  ad  hominum  negotia  et  pectora:’^  (1)  re- 
quirit  ‘ haustum  longum,  haustum  fortem,  et  haustum 
omnes  simul : ’ (2)  ut  canit  poeta,  ^ unum  tactum  Naturae 
to  turn  orbem  facit  consanguineum,’(3)  et  hominis  natura 
est — bibere  ( 4 ) . 

Viri  illustres,  alterum  est  sentimentum  equaliter  uni- 
versale: terra  communis  super  quam  septentrionales  et 
meridionales,  eadem  enthusiasm^  convenire  possunt:  est 
necesse  quod  id  nominarem  ? Ad  pulchrum  sexum  devotio ! 

^ Amor  regit  palatium,  castra,  lucum.’(5)  Dubito 
sub  quo  capite  vestram  jucundam  civitatem  numerare  de- 
beam. Palatium?  non  regem!  castra?  non  milites!  lucum? 
non  ullam  arborem  habetis!  Tamen  Cupido  vos  dominat 
baud  aliter  quam  alios, — et  virginum  Islandarum  pul- 
chritude per  omnes  regiones  cognita  est. 

Bibamus  salutem  earum,  et  confusionem  ad  omnes 
bacularios : speramus  quod  ese  carse  et  benedictse  creaturae 
invenient  tot  maritos  quot  velint, — quod  geminos  quottanis 
habeant,  et  quod  earum  filise,  maternum  exemplum  sequen- 
tes,  gentem  Islandicam  perpetuent  in  ssecula  sseculorum.” 
The  last  words  mechanically  rolled  out,  in  the  same  ore 
rotundo  with  which  the  poor  old  Dean  of  Christchurch 
used  to  finish  his  Gloria,  etc.,  in  the  cathedral. 

Then  followed  more  speeches, — a great  chinking  of 


1 As  the  happiness  of  these  quotations  seemed  to  produce  a very  pleasing 
effect  on  my  auditors,  I subjoin  a translation  of  them  for  the  benefit  of 
the  unlearned  : — 

1.  “ Comes  home  to  men’s  business  and  bosoms.” — Paterfamilias,  Times. 

2.  “A  long  pull,  a strong  pull,  and  a pull  all  together.” — Nelson  at  the 
Nile. 

3.  “ One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin.” — Jeremy  Bentham, 

4.  Apothegm  by  the  late  Lord  Mountcoffeehouse. 

5.  “ Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove.” — Venerable  Bede. 


LORD  DUFFERIW. 


947 


glasses, — a Babel  of  conversation, — a kind  of  dance  round 
the  table,  where  we  successively  gave  each  alternate  hand, 
as  in  the  last  figure  of  the  Lancers, — a hearty  embrace 
from  the  Governor, — and  finally — silence,  daylight,  and 
fresh  air,  as  we  stumbled  forth  into  the  street. 


THOMAS  DUFFET. 


(Flourished  about  1676.) 

Thomas  Duffet  “flourished  in  the  seventeenth  century,”  ac- 
cording to  Lempriere’s  Universal  Biography.  Beyond  this  little  is 
known  except  that  he  was  an  Irishman  who  kept  a milliner’s  shop  in 
the  New  Exchange,  London,  and  was  a writer  of  burlesques  and 
songs.  As  a song- writer  he  is  now  best  remembered.  His  songs 
are  delightful  of  their  kind,  an  artificial  kind  to  be  sure,  but  his  was 
an  age  of  artificialities.  Something  of  the  delicate  unreal  grace, — 
as  of  a duchess  playing  at  milkmaid  with  a Dresden-China  petticoat 
all  nosegays  and  true-lover  knots, — which  gave  its  most  exquisite 
inspiration  to  Purcell  and  Arne,  is  to  be  found  in  the  songs  of  the 
accomplished  ex-man-milliner  ; something,  too,  of  the  gay  and  cold 
sparkle  of  Pope  is  in  his  praises  of  Celia. 

That  Buffet’s  burlesques  of  Dry  den  and  Shadwell  and  others  were 
successful,  even  the  editors  of  ‘ Biographia  Dramatica  ’ acknowledge, 
but  they  declare  that  for  the  favorable  reception  they  found  Mr. 
Duffet  stood  more  indebted  to  the  great  names  of  those  authors 
whose  works  he  attempted  to  burlesque  and  ridicule  than  to  any 
merit  of  his  own.”  Of  these  burlesques  six  are  at  present  known  : 
‘ The  Amorous  Old  Woman’  (doubtful),  ‘ Spanish  Rogue,’  ‘ Empress 
of  Morocco,’  ‘Mock  Tempest,’  ‘Beauty’s  Triumph,’  and  ‘Psyche 
Debauched.’ 


COME  ALL  YOU  PALE  LOVERS. 

Come  all  you  pale  lovers  that  sigh  and  complain, 

While  your  beautiful  tyrants  but  laugh  at  your  pain, 
Come  practice  with  me 
To  be  happy  and  free. 

In  spite  of  inconstancy,  pride,  or  disdain. 

I see  and  I love,  and  the  bliss  I enjoy 
No  rival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 

My  mistress  so  fair  is,  no  language  or  art 
Can  describe  her  perfection  in  every  part; 

Her  mien ’s  so  genteel. 

With  such  ease  she  can  kill. 

Each  look  with  new  passion  she  captures  my  heart. 

Her  smiles,  the  kind  message  of  love  from  her  eyes, 

, When  she  frowns ’t  is  from  others  her  flame  to  disguise. 
Thus  her  scorn  or  her  spite 
I convert  to  delight. 

As  the  bee  gathers  honey  wherever  he  flies. 

948 


THOMAS  BUFFET, 


949 


My  vows  she  receives  from  her  lover  unknown, 
And  I fancy  kind  answers  although  I have  none« 
How  blest  should  I be 
If  our  hearts  did  agree, 

Since  already  I find  so  much  pleasure  alone. 

I see  and  I love,  and  the  bliss  I enjoy 
Ko  rival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 


SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


(1816—1903.) 

Charles  Gavan  Duffy  was  bom  in  Monaghan  in  1816.  He  was 
educated  in  that  town,  and  he  had,  at  an  early  age,  to  rely  on  his  own 
energies.  He  was  but  a lad  when  he  went  to  Dublin  and  obtained 
employment  as  sub-editor  on  The  Dublin  Morning  Register.  He  re- 
turned soon  afterward  to  his  native  north  as  the  editor  of  a paper 
of  considerable  influence  in  Belfast.  Once  more  he  turned  his  face 
to  the  metropolis,  and  obtained  an  engagement  on  The  Mountain^ 
an  O’Connell  organ. 

It  was  not  till  1842,  however,  that  his  career  could  be  said  to  have 
really  begun.  In  that  year  he,  in  conjunction  with  Thomas  Davis 
and  John  B.  Dillon,  founded  The  Nation.  The  memoirs  we  give  of 
several  Irishmen — orators,  poets,  and  prose  writers — will  bring  home 
to  the  reader  a sense  of  the  enormous  significance  of  this  event  in 
the  literary  and  political  world  of  Ireland. 

Dulfy’s  new  journal  attracted  to  it  all  the  young  talent  of  the 
countr}",  and  there  grew  up  a literature  which  challenges  favorable 
comparison  with  that  of  any  other  period  of  Irish  history.  Duffy 
was  soon  brought  face  to  face  with  the  difficulties  which  lay  in  the 
path  of  a journalist  of  anti-governmental  politics  ; in  1844  he  was 
tried  with  O’Connell,  was  defended  by  Whiteside,  and  was  found 
guilty.  The  verdict  was  quashed  on  an  appeal  to  the  House  of 
Lords. 

Soon  after  this  a breach  took  place  between  O’Connell  and  the 
Young  Ireland  party.  Duffy  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Irish 
Confederation,  which  the  more  ardent  section  set  up  in  opposition 
to  O’Connell’s  pacific  organization.  When  the  troublous  days  of 
1848  came,  Duffy  had  to  pass  through  the  same  trials  as  his  com- 
panions; The  Nation  was  suppressed;  he  himself  was  arrested,  and 
only  released  after  the  Government  four  times  attempted,  and  four 
times  failed,  to  obtain  a conviction. 

And  now  he  began  life  again,  resuscitated  The  Nation^  and 
preached  the  modified  gospel  of  constitutional  agitation.  He  also 
had  a share  in  founding  a Parliamentary  party,  having  been  elected 
for  New  Ross  in  1852.  The  object  of  this  party  was  to  obtain  legis- 
lative reforms,  especially  for  the  cultivators  of  the  soil  ; and  one  of 
its  principles  was  to  hold  aloof  from  both  the  English  parties.  The 
defection  of  Justice  Keogh  and  others  drove  several  of  the  “ Inde- 
pendent opposition  ” party,  as  it  was  called,  to  despair,  and  de- 
stroyed for  the  moment  all  confidence  in  Parliamentary  agitation. 
Duffy,  being  one  among  those  who  had  abandoned  hope,  left  Ireland 
to  seek  brighter  fortunes  and  more  promising  work  in  another  land. 

He  soon  found  employment  for  his  talents  in  Australia  : he  had 
left  Ireland  in  1856,  and  in  1857  was  Minister  of  Public  Works  in 
Victoria.  That  office  he  held  twice  afterward,  and  in  1871  he  at- 
tained to  the  still  higher  position  of  Prime  Minister  of  the  colony. 
Being  defeated  in  Parliament,  he  demanded  the  right  to  dissolve  ; 

950 


SIR  CHARLES  GAYAH  DUFFY. 


951 


but  Viscount  Canterbury,  for  reasons  which  were  at  the  time  the 
subject  of  hot  controversy,  declined  to  accede  to  the  request,  and 
Duffy  had  to  resign.  He  was  offered  knighthood,  which  he  at  first 
refused,  but  ultimately  accepted  in  May,  1873.  In  1876  he  was 
elected  Speaker  of  the  Legislative  Assembly.  After  his  departure 
from  Ireland  he  paid  two  visits  of  some  duration  to  Europe,  and  on 
his  retirement  in  1880  he  went  to  live  at  Nice,  where  he  recorded  in 
volumes  as  fascinating  as  instructive  the  history  of  the  Irish  move- 
ments with  which  he  had  been  connected.  He  died  in  1903. 

Sir  Charles  Duffy  was  a writer  of  vigorous  prose  and  an  effec- 
tive orator.  His  poems  are  few  in  number.  Several  of  them  are 
strong  and  slashing  and  warlike.  There  are  others  in  sweeter  vein ; 
but  all  alike  bear  the  stamp  of  the  true  poet.  His  publications  are 
‘ The  Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland,’  1845  (fifty  editions);  ‘ Young  Ire- 
land,’ ‘ A Fragment  of  Irish  History,’  ‘ Conversations  with  Carlyle,’ 
‘ The  League  of  North  and  South,’  ‘ The  Life  of  Thomas  Davis,’ 
‘ Bird’s  Eye  View  of  Irish  History,’  ‘ My  Life  in  Two  Hemispheres.’ 
He  was  President  of  the  Irish  Literary  Society  of  London. 


A DISPUTE  WITH  CARLYLE. 

From  ‘ Conversations  with  Carlyle.’ 

In  all  our  intercourse  for  more  than  a generation  I had 
only  one  quarrel  with  Carlyle,  which  occurred  about  this 
time,  and  I wish  to  record  it,  because,  in  my  opinion,  he 
behaved  generously  and  even  magnanimously.  Comment- 
ing on  some  transaction  of  the  day,  I spoke  with  indigna- 
tion of  the  treatment  of  Ireland  by  her  stronger  sister. 
Carlyle  replied  that  if  he  must  say  the  whole  truth,  it  was 
his  opinion  that  Ireland  had  brought  all  her  misfortunes 
on  herself.  She  had  committed  a great  sin  in  refusing  and 
resisting  the  Reformation.  In  England,  and  especially  in 
Scotland,  certain  men  who  had  grown  altogether  intoler- 
ant of  the  condition  of  the  world  arose  and  swore  that  this 
thing  should  not  continue,  though  the  earth  and  the  devil 
united  to  uphold  it ; and  their  vehement  protest  was  heard 
by  the  whole  universe,  and  whatever  had  been  done  for 
human  liberty  from  that  time  forth,  in  the  English  Com- 
monwealth, in  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  like,  was 
the  product  of  this  protest. 

It  was  a great  sin  for  nations  to  darken  their  eyes 
against  light  like  this,  and  Ireland,  which  had  persistently 
done  so,  was  punished  accordingly.  It  was  hard  to  say 
how  far  England  was  blamable  in  trying  by  trenchant  laws 


952 


IRISH  literature. 


to  compel  her  into  the  right  course,  till  in  later  times  it 
was  found  the  attempt  was  wholly  useless,  and  then  prop- 
erly given  up.  He  found,  and  any  one  might  see  who 
looked  into  the  matter  a little,  that  countries  had  prospered 
or  fallen  into  helpless  ruin  in  exact  proportion  as  they  had 
helped  or  resisted  this  message.  The  most  peaceful,  hope- 
ful nations  in  the  world  just  now  were  the  descendants  of 
the  men  who  had  said,  Away  with  all  your  trash ; we  will 
believe  in  none  of  it;  we  scorn  your  threats  of  damnation; 
on  the  whole  we  prefer  going  down  to  hell  with  a true  story 
in  our  mouths  to  gaining  heaven  by  any  holy  legerdemain.^^ 
Ireland  refused  to  believe  and  must  take  the  consequences, 
one  of  which,  he  would  venture  to  point  out,  was  a popula- 
tion preternaturally  ignorant  and  lazy. 

I was  very  angry,  and  I replied  vehemently  that  the 
upshot  of  his  homily  was  that  Ireland  was  rightly  tram- 
pled upon,  and  plundered  for  three  centuries,  for  not 
believing  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles;  but  did  he  believe  in 
a tittle  of  them  himself?  If  he  did  believe  them,  what  was 
the  meaning  of  his  exhortations  to  get  rid  of  Hebrew  old 
clothes,  and  put  oft  Hebrew  spectacles?  If  he  did  not 
believe  them,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  might,  on  his  own 
showing,  be  trampled  upon,  and  robbed  as  properly  as 
Ireland  for  rejecting  what  he  called  the  manifest  truth. 
Queen  Elizabeth,  or  her  father,  or  any  of  the  Englishmen 
or  Scotchmen  who  rose  for  the  deliverance  of  the  world, 
and  so  forth,  would  have  made  as  short  work  of  him  as 
they  did  of  popish  recusants.  Ireland  was  ignorant,  he 
said,  but  did  he  take  the  trouble  of  considering  that  for 
three  generations  to  seek  education  was  an  offense  strictly 
prohibited  and  punished  by  law?  Down  to  the  time  of  the 
Reform  Act,  and  the  coming  into  power  of  the  Reformers, 
the  only  education  tendered  to  the  Irish  people  was  mixed 
with  the  soot  of  hypocrisy  and  profanation.  When  I was 
a boy,  in  search  of  education,  there  was  not  in  a whole 
province,  where  the  successors  of  these  English  and  Scotch 
prophets  had  had  their  own  way,  a single  school  for 
Catholic  boys  above  the  condition  of  a Poor  School. 

My  guardian  had  to  determine  whether  I should  do  with- 
out education,  or  seek  it  in  a Protestant  school,  where  I was 
regarded  as  an  intruder, — not  an  agreeable  experiment  in 
the  province  of  Ulster,  I could  assure  him.  This  was  whai' 


THE  TREATY  STONE,  LIMERICK 


SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


953 


I,  for  my  part,  owed  to  these  missionaries  of  light  and 
civilization.  The  Irish  people  were  lazy,  he  said,  taking 
no  account  of  the  fact  that  the  fruits  of  their  labor  were 
not  protected  by  law,  but  left  a prey  to  their  landlords, 
who  plundered  them  without  shame  or  mercy.  Peasants 
were  not  industrious,  under  such  conditions,  nor  would 
philosophers  be  for  that  matter,  I fancied.  If  the  people 
of  Ireland  found  the  doctrines  of  the  Reformation  incred- 
ible three  hundred  years  ago,  why  were  they  not  as  well 
entitled  to  reject  them  then  as  he  was  to  reject  them  to- 
day? In  my  opinion  they  were  better  entitled.  A nation 
which  had  been  the  school  of  the  West,  a people  who  had 
sent  missionaries  throughout  Europe  to  win  barbarous 
races  to  Christianity,  who  interpreted  in  its  obvious  sense 
God^s  promise  to  be  always  with  his  Church,  suddenly 
heard  that  a king  of  unbridled  and  unlawful  passions 
undertook  to  modify  the  laws  of  God  for  his  own  conven- 
ience, and  that  his  ministers  and  courtiers  were  bribed  into 
acquiescence  by  the  plunder  of  monasteries  and  churches : 
what  wonder  that  they  declared  that  they  would  die  rather 
than  be  partners  in  such  a transaction.  It  might  be  worth 
remembering  that  the  pretensions  of  Anne  Boleyn’s  hus- 
band to  found  a new  religion  seemed  as  absurd  and  profane 
to  these  Irishmen  as  the  similar  pretensions  of  Joe  Smith 
seemed  to  all  of  us  at  present.  After  all  they  had  endnred, 
the  people  of  Ireland  might  compare  with  any  in  the  world 
for  the  only  virtues  they  were  permitted  to  cultivate : piety, 
chastity,  simplicity,  hospitality  to  the  stranger,  fidelity  to 
friends,  and  the  magnanimity  of  self-sacrifice  for  truth 
and  justice.  When  we  were  touring  in  Ireland  together 
twenty  years  before,  with  the  phenomena  under  our  eyes, 
he  himself  declared  that  after  a trial  of  three  centuries 
there  was  more  vitality  in  Catholicism  than  in  this  saving 
light  to  which  the  people  had  blinded  their  eyes. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  and  John  Forster,  who  were  present,  looked 
at  each  other  in  consternation,  as  if  a catastrophe  were 
imminent;  but  Carlyle  replied  placidly,  That  there  was 
no  great  life,  he  apprehended,  in  either  of  these  systems  at 
present;  men  looked  to  something  quite  different  to  that 
for  their  guidance  just  now.’’ 

I could  not  refrain  from  returning  to  the  subject.  Coun- 
tries which  had  refused  to  relinquish  their  faith  were  less 

8— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


954 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


prosperous,  he  insisted,  than  those  who  placidly  followed 
the  royal  Reformers  in  Germany  and  England.  Perhaps 
they  were;  but  worldly  prosperity  was  the  last  test  I ex- 
pected to  hear  him  apply  to  the  merits  of  a people.  If 
this  was  to  be  a test,  the  Jews  left  the  Reformers  a long 
way  in  the  rear. 

When  nations  were  habitually  peaceful  and  prosperous, 
he  replied,  it  might  be  inferred  that  they  dealt  honestly 
with  the  rest  of  mankind,  for  this  was  the  necessary  basis 
of  any  prosperity  that  was  not  altogether  ephemeral ; and, 
as  conduct  was  the  fruit  of  conviction,  it  might  be  further 
inferred,  with  perfect  safety,  that  they  had  had  honest 
teaching,  which  was  the  manifest  fact  in  the  cases  he  speci- 
fied. 

I was  much  heated,  and  I took  myself  off  as  soon  as  I 
could  discreetly  do  so.  The  same  evening  I met  Carlyle  at 
dinner  at  John  Forster’s;  I sat  beside  him  and  had  a 
pleasant  talk,  and  neither  then  nor  at  any  future  time 
did  he  resent  my  brusque  criticism  by  the  slightest  sign  of 
displeasure.  This  is  a fact,  I think,  which  a generous 
reader  will  recognize  to  be  altogether  incompatible  with 
the  recent  estimate  of  Carlyle  as  a man  of  impatient  tem- 
per and  arrogant,  overbearing  self-will. 


THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH. 

“ We  deny  and  have  always  denied  the  alleged  massacre  of  1641.  • But 
that  the  people  rose  under  their  chiefs,  seized  the  English  towns  and  ex- 
pelled the  English  settlers,  and  in  doing  so  committed  many  excesses,  is 
undeniable — as  is  equally  their  desperate  provocation.  The  ballad  here 
printed  is  not  meant  as  an  apology  for  these  excesses,  which  we  condemn 
and  lament,  but  as  a true  representation  of  the  feelings  of  the  insurgents 
in  the  first  madness  of  success.” — Author's  note. 

Joy!  joy!  the  day  is  come  at  last,  the  day  of  hope  and  pride— 
And  see!  our  crackling  bonfires  light  old  Bann’s  rejoicing  tide, 
And  gladsome  bell  and  bugle-horn  from  Newry’s  captured 
towers, 

Hark!  how  they  tell  the  Saxon  swine  this  land  is  ours — is 
ours! 

Glory  to  God!  my  eyes  have  seen  the  ransomed  fields  of  Down, 
My  ears  have  drunk  the  joyful  news,  Stout  Phelim  hath  his 
own.” 


SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 


955 


Oh ! may  they  see  and  hear  no  more ! — oh ! may  they  rot  to 
clay  !— 

iWhen  they  forget  to  triumph  in  the  conquest  of  to-day. 

Now,  now  we  Ml  teach  the  shameless  Scot  to  purge  his  thievish 
maw ; 

Now,  now  the  court  may  fall  to  pray,  for  Justice  is  the  Law; 
Now  shall  the  Undertaker  ^ square,  for  once,  his  loose  ac- 
counts— 

We’ll  strike,  brave  boys,  a fair  result,  from  all  his  false 
amounts. 

Come,  trample  down  their  robber  rule,  and  smite  its  venal 
spawn. 

Their  foreign  laws,  their  foreign  Church,  their  ermine  and 
their  lawn, 

With  all  the  specious  fry  of  fraud  that  robbed  us  of  our  own ; 
And  plant  our  ancient  laws  again  beneath  our  lineal  throne. 

Our  standard  flies  o’er  fifty  towers,  o’er  twice  ten  thousand 

, men ; 

Down  have  we  plucked  the  pirate  Red,  never  to  rise  again ; 
The  Green  alone  shall  stream  above  our  native  field  and  flood — 
The  spotless  Green,  save  where  its  folds  are  gemmed  with 
Saxon  blood! 

Pity ! 2 no,  no,  you  dare  not,  priest — not  you,  our  Father,  dare 
Preach  to  us  now  that  godless  creed — the  murderer’s  blood  to 
spare ; 

To  spare  his  blood,  while  tombless  still  our  slaughtered  kin  im- 
plore 

Graves  and  revenge  ” from  Gobbin  cliffs  and  Garrick’s  bloody 
shore ! ^ 

Pity ! could  we  forget,  forgive,”  if  we  were  clods  of  clay. 

Our  martyred  priests,  our  banished  chiefs,  our  race  in  dark 
decay, 

1 The  Scotch  and  English  adventurers  planted  in  Ulster  by  James  I. 
were  called  “ Undertakers.” 

2 Leland,  the  Protestant  historian,  states  that  the  Catholic  priests 
“ labored  zealously  to  moderate  the  excesses  of  war,”  and  frequently  pro- 
tected the  English  by  concealing  them  in  their  places  of  worship  and  even 
under  their  altars. 

8 The  scene  of  the  massacre  of  the  unoffending  inhabitants  of  Isla^nd 
Magee  by  the  garrison  of  Carrickfergus. 


95G 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


And,  worse  than  all — you  know  it,  priest — the  daughters  of 
our  land — 

With  wrongs  we  blushed  to  name  until  the  sword  was  in  our 
hand  ? 

Pity ! well,  if  you  needs  must  whine,  let  pity  have  its  way — 

Pity  for  all  our  comrades  true,  far  from  our  side  to-day: 

The  prison-bound  who  rot  in  chains,  the  faithful  dead  who 
poured 

Their  blood  ’neath  Temple’s  lawless  axe  or  Parson’s  ruffian 
sword. 

They  smote  us  with  the  swearer’s  oath  and  with  the  murderer’s 
knife ; 

We  in  the  open  field  will  fight  fairly  for  land  and  life; 

But,  by  the  dead  and  all  their  wrongs,  and  by  our  hopes  to-day. 

One  of  us  twain  shall  fight  their  last,  or  be  it  we  or  they. 

They  banned  our  faith,  they  banned  our  lives,  they  trod  us  into 
earth. 

Until  our  very  patience  stirred  their  bitter  hearts  to  mirth. 

Even  this  great  flame  that  wraps  them  now,  not  we  but  they 
have  bred : 

Yes,  this  is  their  own  work;  and  now  their  work  be  on  their 
head ! 

Nay,  Father,  tell  us  not  of  help  from  Leinster’s  Norman  peers. 

If  we  shall  shape  our  holy  cause  to  match  their  selfish  fears — 

Helpless  and  hopeless  be  their  cause  who  brook  a vain  delay! 

Our  ship  is  launched,  our  flag’s  afloat,  whether  they  come  or 
stay. 

Let  silken  Howth  and  savage  Slane  still  kiss  their  tyrant’s 
rod. 

And  pale  Dunsany  still  prefer  his  master  to  his  God; 

Little  we ’d  miss  their  fathers’  sons,  the  Marchmen  of  the 
Pale, 

If  Irish  hearts  and  Irish  hands  had  Spanish  blade  and  mail ! 

Then  let  them  stay  to  bow  and  fawn,  or  fight  with  cunning 
words ; 

I fear  no  more  their  courtly  arts  than  England’s  hireling 
swords ; 

Nathless  their  creed,  they  hate  us  still,  as  the  despoiler  hates; 

Could  they  love  us,  and  love  their  prey,  our  kinsmen’s  lost 
estates? 


SIR  CHARLES  GAYAH  DUFFY, 


957 


Our  rude  array ’s  a jagged  rock  to  smash  the  spoiler^s  power — ■ 

Or,  need  we  aid,  His  aid  we  have  who  doomed  this  gracious 
hour; 

Of  yore  He  led  His  Hebrew  host  to  peace  through  strife  and 
pain, 

And  us  He  leads  the  self-same  path  the  self-same  goal  to  gain. 

Down  from  the  sacred  hills  whereon  a saint  ^ communed  with 
God, 

Up  from  the  vale  where  BagenaFs  blood  manured  the  reeking 
sod. 

Out  from  the  stately  woods  of  Truagh  M’Kenna^s  plundered 
home. 

Like  Malin’s  waves,  as  fierce  and  fast,  our  faithful  clansmen 
come. 

Then,  brethren,  on!  O’Neill’s  dear  shade  would  frown  to  see 
you  pause — 

Our  banished  Hugh,  our  martyred  Hugh,  is  watching  o’er  your 
cause — 

His  generous  error  lost  the  land — he  deemed  the  Norman  true ; 

Oh,  forward,  friends,  it  must  not  lose  the  land  again  in  you! 


THE  IRISH  RAPPAREES. 


A PEASANT  BALLAD. 


“ When  Limerick  was  surrendered  and  the  bulk  of  the  Irish  army  took 
service  with  Louis  XIV.,  a multitude  of  the  old  soldiers  of  the  Boyne, 
Aughrim,  and  Limerick,  preferred  remaining  in  the  country  at  the  risk  of 
fighting  for  their  daily  bread ; and  with  them  some  gentlemen,  loath  to 
part  from  their  estates  or  their  sweethearts.  The  English  army  and  the 
English  law  drove  them  by  degrees  to  the  hills,  where  they  were  long  a 
terror  to  the  new  and  old  settlers  from  England,  and  a secret  pride  and 
comfort  to  the  trampled  peasantry,  who  loved  them  even  for  their  excesses. 
It  was  all  they  had  left  to  take  pride  in.” — Author's  note. 


Righ  Shemus  he  has  gone  to  France  and  left  his  crown  be- 
hind : — 

Ill-luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put  runnin’  in  his  mind! 
Lord  Lucan  2 followed  after,  with  his  slashers  brave  and  true, 

^ St.  Patrick,  whose  favorite  retreat  was  Lecale,  in  the  County  Down. 

^ After  the  Treaty  of  Limerick,  Patrick  Sarsfield,  Lord  Lucan,  sailed 
with  the  Brigade  to  France,  and  was  killed  while  leading  his  countrymen 
to  victory  at  the  battle  of  Landen,  in  the  Low  Countries,  July  29,  1693. 


958 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


And  now  the  doleful  keen  is  raised — What  will  poor  Ireland 
do? 

What  must  poor  Ireland  do? 

Our  luck,  they  say,  has  gone  to  France.  What  can  poor  Ireland 
do?^’ 


Oh,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  so’gers  still, 

For  Remy’s  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Rory’s  on  the  hill; 

And  never  had  i>oor  Ireland  more  loyal  hearts  than  these — 
May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful  Rapparees! 
The  fearless  Rapparees ! 

The  jewel  waar  ye,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rapparees ! 

Oh,  black ’s  your  heart.  Clan  Oliver,  and  coulder  than  the  clay! 
Oh  high  ’s  3'Our  head.  Clan  Sassenach,  since  Sarsfield  ’s  gone 
away ! 

It ’s  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of  long  ago — 

But  howld  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a deadl;y 
blow — 

Can  strike  a mortal  blow — 

Och!  dar-a-CJiriost!  ’t  is  she  that  still  could  strike  the  deadly 
blow ! 

The  master’s  bawn,  the  master’s  seat,  a surly  hodach^  fills; 
The  master’s  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the  hills; 

But,  God  be  praised,  that  round  him  throng,  as  thick  as  summer 
bees, 

The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  walls — his  faithful  Rap- 
parees ! 

His  lovin’  Rapparees ! 

Who  daar  say,  No  ” to  Rory  Oge,  who  heads  the  Rapparees! 

Black  Billy  Grimes,  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us  long  and  sore — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke;  we’ll  never  see  them 
more ! 

But  I ’ll  go  bail  he  ’ll  break  no  more  while  Truagh  has  gallows- 
trees. 

For  why  ? he  met  one  lonesome  night  the  awful  Rapparees ! 

The  angry  Rapparees ! 

They  never  sin  no  more,  my  boys,  who  cross  the  Rapparees. 

Now,  Sassenach  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what  I say — 
Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks  that  scorn  us  night  and 
day ; 

For  there ’s  a just  and  wrathful  Judge  that  every  action  sees, 

1 Bodach,  a severe,  inhospitable  man  ; a churl. 


SIR  CHARLES  GAYAH  DUFFY, 


959 


And  He  ’ll  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong,  the  faithful  Rap- 
parees ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees! 

The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield’s  side,  the  changeless  Rap* 
parees ! 


THE  IRISH  CHIEFS. 

Oh!  to  have  lived  like  an  Irish  Chief,  when  hearts  were  fresh 
and  true. 

And  a manly  thought,  like  a pealing  bell,  would  quicken  them 
through  and  through; 

And  the  seed  of  a generous  hope  right  soon  to  a fiery  action 
grew. 

And  men  would  have  scorned  to  talk  and  talk,  and  never  a deed 
to  do. 

Oh  ! the  iron  grasp. 

And  the  kindly  clasp. 

And  the  laugh  so  fond  and  gay; 

And  the  roaring  board. 

And  the  ready  sword. 

Were  the  types  of  that  vanished  day. 

Oh!  to  have  lived  as  Brian  lived,  and  to  die  as  Brian  died; 

His  land  to  win  with  the  sword,  and  smile,  as  a warrior  wins 
his  bride. 

To  knit  its  force  in  a kingly  host,  and  rule  it  with  kingly  pride. 

And  still  in  the  girt  of  its  guardian  swords  over  victor  fields 
to  ride; 

And  wdien  age  was  past, 

And  when  death  came  fast. 

To  look  with  a softened  eye 
On  a happy  race 
Who  had  loved  his  face, 

And  to  die  as  a king  should  die. 

Oh  ! to  have  lived  dear  Owen’s  life — to  live  for  a solemn  end. 

To  strive  for  the  ruling  strength  and  skill  God’s  saints  to  the 
Chosen  send ; 

And  to  come  at  length  with  that  holy  strength,  the  bondage  of 
fraud  to  rend. 

And  pour  the  light  of  God’s  freedom  in  where  Tyrants  and 
Slaves  were  denned; 

And  to  bear  the  brand 
With  an  equal  hand. 

Like  a soldier  of  Truth  and  Right, 


960 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


And,  oil ! Saints,  to  die, 

While  onr  flag  flew  high. 

Nor  to  look  on  its  fall  or  flight. 

Oh!  to  have  lived  as  Grattan  lived,  in  the  glow  of  his  manly 
years. 

To  thunder  again  those  iron  words  that  thrill  like  the  clash  of 
spears ; 

Once  more  to  blend  for  a holy  end,  our  peasants,  and  priests, 
and  peers, 

Till  England  raged,  like  a baffled  fiend,  at  the  tramp  of  our 
Volunteers. 

And,  oh  ! best  of  all,  • 

Far  rather  'to  fall 
(With  a blesseder  fate  than  he,) 

On  a conquering  field. 

Than  one  right  to  yield. 

Of  the  Island  so  proud  and  free ! 

Yet  scorn  to  cry  on  the  days  of  old,  when  hearts  were  fresh  and 
true. 

If  hearts  be  weak,  oh!  chiefly  then  the  Missioned  their  work 
must  do; 

Nor  wants  our  day  its  own  fit  way,  the  want  is  in  you  and  you; 

For  these  eyes  have  seen  as  kingly  a King  as  ever  dear  Erin 
knew. 

And  with  Brian^s  will. 

And  with  Owen’s  skill. 

And  with  glorious  Grattan’s  love, 

He  had  freed  us  soon — 

But  death  darkened  his  noon. 

And  he  sits  with  the  saints  above. 

Oh!  could  you  live  as  Davis  lived — kind  Heaven  be  his  bed! 

With  an  eye  to  guide,  and  a hand  to  rule,  and  a calm  and  kingly 
head. 

And  a heart  from  whence,  like  a Holy  Well,  the  soul  of  his  land 
was  fed. 

No  need  to  cry  on  the  days  of  old  that  your  holiest  hope  be 
sped. 

Then  scorn  to  pray 
For  a by-past  day — 

The  whine  of  the  sightless  dumb! 

To  the  true  and  wise 
Let  a king  arise. 

And  a holier  day  is  come! 


SIR  CHARLES  GAY  AN  DUFFY. 


961 


INNISHOWEN. 

God  bless  the  gray  mountains  of  dark  Donegal, 

.God  bless  Royal  Aileach,  the  pride  of  them  all; 

For  she  sits  evermore  like  a queen  on  her  throne, 

And  smiles  on  the  valley  of  Green  Innishowen. 

And  fair  are  the  valleys  of  Green  Innishowen, 

And  hardy  the  fishers  that  call  them  their  own — 

A race  that  nor  traitor  nor  coward  have  known 
Enjoy  the  fair  valleys  of  Green  Innishowen. 

Oh ! simple  and  bold  are  the  bosoms  they  bear, 

Like  the  hills  that  with  silence  and  nature  they  share; 
For  our  God,  who  hath  planted  their  home  near  his  own, 
Breathed  His  spirit  abroad  upon  fair  Innishowen. 

Then  praise  to  our  Father  for  wild  Innishowen, 

Where  fiercely  for  ever  the  surges  are  thrown — 

Nor  weather  nor  fortune  a tempest  hath  blown 
Could  shake  the  strong  bosoms  of  brave  Innishowen. 

See  the  bountiful  Couldah  ^ careering  along — 

A type  of  their  manhood  so  stately  and  strong — 

On  the  weary  for  ever  its  tide  is  bestown. 

So  they  share  with  the  stranger  in  fair  Innishowen. 

God  guard  the  kind  homesteads  of  fair  Innishowen. 
Which  manhood  and  virtue  have  chos’n  for  their  own; 
Not  long  shall  that  nation  in  slavery  groan. 

That  rears  the  tall  peasants  of  fair  Innishowen. 

Like  that  oak  of  St.  Bride  which  nor  Devil  nor  Dane, 
Nor  Saxon  nor  Dutchman  could  rend  from  her  fane. 
They  have  clung  by  the  creed  and  the  cause  of  their  own 
Through  the  midnight  of  danger  in  true  Innishowen. 

Then  shout  for  the  glories  of  old  Innishowen. 

The  stronghold  that  foemen  have  never  o’erthrown — 
The  soul  and  the  spirit,  the  blood  and  the  bone, 

That  guard  the  green  valleys  of  true  Innishowen. 

No  purer  of  old  was  the  tongue  of  the  Gael, 

When  the  charging  al}oo  made  the  foreigner  quail; 

When  it  gladdens  the  stranger  in  welcome’s  soft  tone. 

In  the  home-loving  cabins  of  kind  Innishowen, 

Oh  ! flourish,  ye  homesteads  of  kind  Innishowen, 

Where  seeds  of  a people’s  redemption  are  sown ; 

Right  soon  shall  the  fruit  of  that  sowing  have  grown, 

To  bless  the  kind  homesteads  of  green  Innishowen. 

1 Couldah,  Culdaff,  the  chief  river  in  the  Innishowen  mountains. 


962 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


When  they  tell  us  the  tale  of  a spell-stricken  band. 

All  entranced,  with  their  bridles  and  broadswords  in  hand, 
Who  await  but  the  word  to  give  Erin  her  own, 

They  can  read  you  that  riddle  in  proud  Innishowen. 

Hurra  for  the  SpaBiuen  ^ of  ])roud  Innishowen ! — 

Long  live  the  wild  Seers  of  stout  Innishowen! — 

May  Mary,  our  mother,  l)e  deaf  to  their  moan 
Who  love  not  the  promise  of  proud  Innishowen ! 

1 Spcemen,  an  Ulster  and  Scotch  term  signifying  a person  gifted  with 
second  sight” — a prophet. 


EARL  OF  DUNRAVEN. 


(1841 ) 

Windham  Thomas  Wyndham-Quin,  the  fourth  Earl  of  Dunraven 
and  Mount-Earl,  was  born  in  1841,  and  succeeded  to  the  title  in  1871. 
He  was  educated  at  Oxford  and  went  into  the  army.  Before  his 
father’s  death,  while  Viscount  Adare,  he  devoted  himself  to  literary 
pursuits,  and  gained  a good  deal  of  the  experience  afforded  by  the 
discharge  of  the  varied  and  adventurous  duties  of  special  corre- 
spondent. In  this  capacity  he  served  the  London  Daily ^ Telegraph 
throughout  the  Abyssinian  campaign  and  the  Franco-Prussian  war, 
and  his  letters  contained  some  of  the  most  graphic  descriptions  that 
appeared  even  in  that  journal  of  graphic  writing  during  those  excit- 
ing periods. 

He  made  a tour  through  the  then  less  frequented  parts  of  the 
United  States,  and  the  result  of  his  observations  was  given  to  the 
world  in  a book  entitled  ‘ The  Great  Divide,’  a work  which  abounds 
in  brilliant  descriptions.  He  also  wrote  ‘ The  Upper  Yellowstone  ’ 
(1874) ; ‘ The  Irish  Question  ’ (1880) ; ‘ The  Soudan : Its  History,  Geog- 
raphy, and  Characteristics’  (1884);  and  ' The  Theory  and  Practice 
of  Navigation  ’ (1900).  He  is  an  ardent  yachtsman  and  twice  built 
a yacht  to  compete  for  the  America  Cup. 

A CITY  IN  THE  GREAT  WEST. 

From  ‘The  Great  Divide.’ 

Virginia  City.  Good  Lord ! What  a name  for  the  place ! 
We  had  looked  forward  to  it  during  the  journey  as  to  a 
sort  of  haven  of  rest,  a lap  of  luxury;  a Capua  in  which  to 
forget  our  woes  and  weariness;  an  Elysium  where  we 
might  be  washed,  clean-shirted,  rubbed,  shampooed,  bar- 
bered,  curled,  cooled,  and  cocktailed.  Not  a bit  of  it! 
Not  a sign  of  Capua  about  the  place!  There  might  have 
been  laps,  but  there  was  no  luxury.  A street  of  straggling 
shanties,  a bank,  a blacksmitlPs  shop,  a few  dry-goods 
stores,  and  bar-rooms,  constitute  the  main  attractions  of 
the  city.’’  A gentleman  had  informed  me  that  Virginia 
city  contained  brown  stone-front  houses  and  paved  streets, 
equal,  he  guessed,  to  any  Eastern  town.  How  that  man 
did  lie  in  his  Wellingtons ! The  whole  place  was  a delusion 
and  a snare.  One  of  the  party  was  especially  mortified, 
for  he  had  been  provided  with  a letter  of  introduction  to 
some  ladies,  from  whose  society  he  anticipated  great  pleas- 


964 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


ure;  but  when  lie  came  to  inquire,  be  found,  to  bis  intense 
disgust,  that  they  were  in  Virginia  City,  Nevada^  ten 
thousand  miles  away ! However,  we  soon  became  recon- 
ciled to  our  fate.  We  found  tbe  little  inn  very  clean  and 
comfortable;  we  dined  on  deer,  antelope,  and  bear  meat, 
a fact  wbicb  raised  hopes  of  bunting  in  our  bosoms;  and 
tbe  people  were  exceedingly  civil,  kind,  obliging,  and 
anxious  to  assist  strangers  in  any  possible  way,  as,  so  far 
as  my  experience  goes  of  America,  and  indeed  of  all  coun- 
tries, they  invariably  are  as  soon  as  you  get  off  tbe  regular 
lines  of  travel. 

Virginia  City  is  situated  on  Alder  Gulch.  It  is  sur- 
rounded by  a dreary  country,  resembling  tbe  more  desolate 
parts  of  Cumberland,  and  consisting  of  interminable 
waves  of  steep  low  bills,  covered  with  short,  withered 
grass.  I went  out  for  a walk  on  tbe  afternoon  of  our  ar- 
rival, and  was  most  disagreeably  impressed.  I could  not 
get  to  tbe  top  of  anything,  and  consequently  could  obtain 
no  extended  view.  I kept  continually  climbing  to  tbe  sum- 
mit of  grassy  bills,  only  to  find  other  bills,  grassier  and 
higher,  surrounding  me  on  all  sides.  The  wind  swept  howl- 
ing down  the  combes,  and  whistled  shrilly  in  the  short  wiry 
herbage;  large  masses  of  ragged-edged  black  clouds  were 
piled  up  against  a leaden  sky;  not  a sign  of  man  or  beast 
was  to  be  seen.  It  began  to  snow  heavily,  and  I was  glad 
to  turn  my  back  to  the  storm  and  scud  for  home. 

Alder  Gulch  produced  at  one  time  some  of  the  richest 
placer  workings  of  the  continent.  It  was  discovered  in 
18G3,  and  about  thirty  millions  of  dollars’  worth  of  gold 
have  been  won  from  it.  Of  late  years  very  little  has 
been  done,  and  at  present  the  industrious  Chinaman  alone 
pursues  the  business  of  rewashing  the  old  dirt  heaps,  and 
making  money  where  any  one  else  would  starve.  In  truth, 
he  is  a great  washerwoman  is  your  Chinaman,  equally  suc- 
cessful with  rotten  quartz  and  dirty  shirts.  Alder  Gulch 
is  about  twelve  miles  in  length,  and  half  a mile  broad.  It 
is  closed  at  the  head  by  a remarkable  limestone  ridge,  the 
highest  point  of  which  is  known  as  Old  Baldy  Mountain,” 
and  it  leads  into  the  Jefferson  Fork  of  the  Missouri. 
Along  the  sides  of  the  valley  may  be  seen  many  patches  of 
black  basalt,  and  the  bottom  is  covered  entirely  by  drift, 
composed  of  material  weather  and  water  worn  out  of  met- 


EARL  OF  DVNRAVE1\L 


9G5 


amorphic  rocks,  the  fragments  varying  in  size  from  large 
bowlders  to  fine  sand  and  gravel.  In  this  drift  the  float 
gold  is  found. 

In  Montana  the  deposits  of  the  precious  metal  generally 
occur  in  metamorphic  rocks,  belonging  probably  to  the 
Huronian  or  Laureutian  series.  These  are  clearly  strati- 
fied, not  unfrequently  intercalated  with  bands  of  clay  or 
sand,  and  underlie  the  whole  country,  forming  beds  of 
great  thickness,  very  massive  and  close-grained  in  their 
lower  layers,  but  growing  softer  and  looser  in  texture  to- 
wards the  surface.  The  superimposed  formations,  carbon- 
iferous limestones  and  others,  appear  to  have  been  almost 
wholly  removed  by  erosion. 

In  this  part  of  Montana,  indeed,  the  forces  of  erosion 
must  have  acted  with  great  vigor  for  a long  period  of  time. 
The  general  character  of  the  country  where  placer  mines 
exist  may  be  said  to  be  a series  of  deep  gulches,  frequently 
dry  in  the  height  of  summer,  but  carrying  foaming  torrents 
after  heavy  rains  and  in  snow-melting  time,  leading  at 
right  angles  into  a principal  valley,  and  combining  to  form 
a little  river,  or,  as  it  would  be  locally  called,  a creek. 

This  principal  stream  courses  in  a broad  valley  through 
the  mountains  for  perhaps  60,  80,  or  100  miles,  and  at 
every  two  or  three  miles  of  its  progress  receives  the  waters 
of  a little  tributary  torrent,  tearing  through  the  strata  in 
deep  canons  for  ten  or  twelve  miles,  and  searching  the  very 
vitals  of  the  hills.  Down  these  gulches,  canons,  and  val- 
leys are  carried  the  yellow  specks  torn  from  their  quartz 
and  felspar  cradles,  hurried  downward  by  the  melting 
snow,  and  battered  into  powder  by  falling  bowlders  and 
grinding  rocks,  till  they  sink  in  beds  of  worthless  sand  and 
mud,  there  to  lie  in  peace  for  ages  amid  the  solitudes  of 
primeval  forest  and  eternal  snow. 

Some  fine  day  there  conies  along  a dirty,  disheveled,  to- 
bacco-chewing fellow — fossicker,”  as  they  would  say  in 
Australia,  ‘‘  prospector,’^  as  he  would  be  called  in  the 
States.  Impelled  by  a love  of  adventure,  a passion  for  ex- 
citement, a hatred  of  the  town  and  its  narrow  ways,”  and 
of  all  and  any  of  the  steady  wage-getting  occupations  of 
life,  he  braves  summer’s  heat  and  winter’s  cold,  thirst  and 
starvation,  hostile  Indians  and  jealous  whites;  perhaps 
paddling  a tiny  birch-bark  canoe  over  unmapped,  unheard- 


966 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


of  lakes,  away  to  the  far  and  misty  North,  or  driving  before 
him  over  the  plains  and  prairies  of  a more  genial  clime  his 
donkey  or  Indian  pony,  laden  with  the  few  necessaries  that 
supply  all  the  wants  of  his  precarious  life — a little  flour, 
some  tea  and  sugar  tied  up  in  a rag,  a battered  frying-pan 
and  tin  cup,  a shovel,  axe,  and  rusty  gun.  Through  un- 
trodden wastes  he  wanders,  self-dependent  and  alone, 
thinking  of  the  great  spree  he  had  the  last  time  he  was  in 
settlements,’’  and  dreaming  of  what  a good  time  he  will 
enjoy  when  he  gets  back  rich  with  the  value  of  some  lucky 
find,  till  chance  directs  him  to  the  Gulch. 

After  a rapid  but  keen  survey,  he  thinks  it  is  a likely- 
looking  place,  capsizes  the  pack  off  his  pony,  leans  lazily 
upon  his  shovel,  spits,  and  finally  concludes  to  take  a sam- 
ple of  the  dirt.  Listlessly,  but  with  what  delicacy  of  ma- 
nipulation he  handles  the  shovel,  spilling  over  its  edges  the 
water  and  lighter  mud!  See  the  look  of  interest  that 
wakens  up  his  emotionless  face  as  the  residue  of  sediment 
becomes  less  and  less!  Still  more  tenderly  he  moves  the 
circling  pan,  stooping  anxiously  to  scan  the  few  remaining 
grains  of  fine  sand. 

A minute  speck  of  yellow  glitters  in  the  sun;  with  an- 
other dexterous  turn  of  the  wrist,  two  or  three  more  golden 
grains  are  exposed  to  view.  He  catches  his  breath;  his 
eyes  glisten ; his  heart  beats.  Hurrah  ! He  has  found  the 
color ! and  “ a d — d good  color  too.”  It  is  all  over  with 
your  primeval  forest  now;  not  all  the  Indians  this  side  of 
Halifax  or  the  other  place  could  keep  men  out  of  that 
gulch.  In  a short  time  claims  are  staked,  tents  erected, 
shanties  built,  and  Roaring  Camp”  is  in  full  blast  with 
all  its  rowdyism,  its  shooting,  gambling,  drinking,  and 
blaspheming,  and  its  under-current  of  charity,  which  never 
will  be  credited  by  those  who  value  substance  less  than 
shadows,  and  think  more  of  words  than  deeds. 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  ECCLES. 


Miss  O’Conor  Eccles  is  the  fourth  daughter  of  Alexander  O’Conor 
Eccles  of  Ballingarde  House,  County  Roscommon.  She  was  edu- 
cated at  Upton  Hall,  Birkenhead,  and  in  Paris  and  Germany.  She 
wrote,  under  the  pseudonym  “Hal  Godfrey,”  ‘ The  Rejuvenation  of 
Miss  Semaphore,’  a delightfully  humorous  book  which  has  been 
very  successful.  Her  work,  which  is  scattered  over  many  period- 
icals, is  very  extensive.  The  humorous  and  the  pathetic  are  happily 
mingled  in  her  writings. 


KING  WILLIAM. 

A CHROXirLE  OF  TOOMEVARA. 

From  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

In  Toomevara  our  political  opinions  are  strong  and  well 
defined,  and  we  express  them  freely. 

Such  feuds,  however,  as  that  between  Mrs.  Macfarlane, 
who  kept  the  refreshment-room  at  the  railway-station,  and 
Mr.  James  O’Brien,  the  station-master,  were  rare,  since 
usually  Catholics  and  Protestants  live  on  very  neighborly 
terms  in  our  part  of  Ireland.  They  had  taken  a dislike  to 
each  other  from  the  first,  and  after-events  served  to  inten- 
sify it. 

Mrs.  Macfarlane  was  a tall,  thin,  and  eminently  respec- 
table woman  of  fifty,  possessed  of  many  rigid  virtues.  She 
was  a native  of  the  North  of  Ireland,  and  at  the  time  our 
story  opens  had  been  for  two  years  proprietress  of  the 
buffet,  and  made  a decent  living  by  it,  for  Toomevara  is 
situated  on  the  Great  Eastern  and  Western  Railway,  and  a 
fair  amount  of  traffic  passes  through  it. 

The  station-master,  familiarly  known  as  Jim  O’Brien, 
was  Toomevara  born,  and  had  once  been  a porter  on  that 
very  line.  He  was  an  intelligent,  easy-going,  yet  quick- 
tempered man  of  pronounced  Celtic  type,  with  a round, 
good-natured  face,  a humorous  mouth,  shrewd  twinkling 
eyes,  and  immense  volubilit}^  Bet^veen  him  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
farlane the  deadliest  warfare  raged.  She  was  cold  and 
superior,  and  implacably  in  the  right.  She  pointed  out 
Jim’s  deficiencies  whenever  she  saw  them,  and  she  saw 
them  very  often.  All  day  long  she  sat  in  her  refreshment- 

967 


968  * 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


room,  spectacles  on  nose,  her  Bible  open  before  her,  knit- 
ting, and  rising  only  at  the  entrance  of  a customer.  Jim 
had  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  nothing  escaped  her  eye, 
and  her  critical  remarks  had  more  than  once  been  reported 
to  him. 

“ The  bitther  ould  pill ! ’’  he  said  to  his  wife.  Why, 
the  very  look  av  her  ’ud  sour  a crock  o’  crame.  She ’s  as 
cross  as  a bag  av  weasels.” 

Jim  was  a Catholic  and  a Nationalist.  He  belonged  to 
the  Laygue,”  and  spoke  at  public  meetings  as  often  as  his 
duties  allowed.  He  objected  to  being  referred  to  by  Mrs. 
Macfarlane  as  a Papish  ” and  a Rebel.” 

Papish,  indeed  I ” said  he.  “ Ribbil,  indeed  ! Tell  the 
woman  to  keep  a civil  tongue  in  her  head,  or  ’t  will  be 
worse  for  her.” 

How  did  the  likes  av  her  iver  git  a husban’?  ” he  would 
ask  distractedly,  after  a sparring  match.  Troth,  an’  ’t  is 
no  wonder  the  poor  man  died.” 

^Irs.  Macfarlane  was  full  of  fight  and  courage.  Her 
proudest  boast  was  of  being  the  granddaughter,  daughter, 
sister,  and  widow  of  Orangemen.  The  comparative  luke- 
warmness of  Toomevara  Protestants  disgusted  her.  She 
often  told  her  intimates  that  in  the  little  town  where  she 
was  born  no  Papist  was  allowed  to  settle.  Every  evening 
the  fife  and  drum  band  used  in  her  childhood  to  march 
through  the  streets  playing  Protestant  Boys,”  when  the 
inhabitants  were  expected  to  rush  to  their  windows  and 
join  in  the  chorus,  unless  there  was  a good  excuse,  such  as 
illness.  Otherwise  the  windows  were  broken.  She  looked 
on  herself  in  Toomevara  as  a child  of  Israel  among  the 
Babylonians,  and  felt  that  it  behoved  her  to  uphold  the 
standard  of  her  faith.  To  this  end  she  sang  the  praises 
of  the  Battle  of  the  Bojme  with  a triumph  that  aggravated 
O’Brien  to  madness. 

God  Almighty  help  the  woman!  Is  it  Irish  at  all  she 
is — or  what?  To  see  her  makin’  merry  because  a parcel  o’ 

rascally  Dutchmen Sure,  doesn’t  she  know  ’t  was 

Irish  blood  they  spilt  at  the  Boyne?  an’  to  see  her  takin’ 
pride  in  it  turns  me  sick,  so  it  does.  If  she  was  English, 
now,  I could  stand  it;  but  she  callin’  herself  an  Irish- 
woman— faith,  she  has  the  bad  dhrop  in  her,  so  she  has,  to 
be  glad  at  her  counthry’s  misforthunes.” 


CHARLOTTE  O^CONOR  ECCLE8. 


969 


Jim’s  rage  was  the  greater  because  Mrs.  Macfarlane, 
whatever  she  said,  said  little  or  nothing  to  him.  She 
passed  him  by  with  lofty  scorn  and  indifference,  affecting 
not  to  see  him;  and  while  she  did  many  things  that  O’Brien 
found  extremely  annoying,  they  were  things  strictly  within 
her  rights. 

Matters  had  not  arrived  at  this  pass  all  at  once.  The 
feud  dated  from  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  having  adopted  a little 
black  dog,  a mongrel,  on  which  she  lavished  a wealth  of 
affection,  and  which — as  the  most  endearing  title  she  knew 
— she  had  named  King  William.”  This,  of  course,  was 
nobody’s  concern  save  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  own,  and  in  a 
world  of  philosophers  she  would  have  been  allowed  to 
amuse  herself  unheeded;  but  Jim  O’Brien  was  not  a phi- 
losopher. 

Unlike  most  Irishmen,  he  had  a great  love  for  flowers. 
His  garden  was  beautifully  kept,  and  he  was  prouder  of 
his  roses  than  anything  on  earth  save  his  eldest  daughter 
Kitty,  who  was  nearly  sixteen.  Picture,  then,  his  rage  and 
dismay  when  he  one  day  found  his  beds  scratched  into 
holes,  and  his  roses  uprooted  by  King  William,”  who  had 
developed  a perfect  mania  for  hiding  away  bones  under 
Jim’s  flowers.  O’Brien  made  loud  and  angry  complaints 
to  the  dog’s  owner,  which  she  received  with  unconcern  and 
disbelief. 

“ Please,  Misther  O’Brien,”  she  said  with  dignity,  don’t 
try  to  put  it  on  the  poor  dog.  Even  if  you  do  dislike  his 
name,  that ’s  no  reason  for  saying  he  was  in  your  garden. 
He  knows  better,  so  he  does,  than  to  go  where  he ’s  not 
wanted.” 

After  this  it  was  open  war  between  the  station-master 
and  the  widow. 

Jim,  with  many  grumblings,  invested  in  a roll  of  wire 
netting,  and  spent  a couple  of  days  securing  it  to  his 
garden  railings,  Mrs.  Macfarlane  protesting  the  while  that 
she  did  not  believe  a word  he  had  said,  that  he  had  trumped 
up  a charge  just  out  of  spite,  that  it  was  only  what  might 
be  expected  from  one  of  his  kind,  that  for  her  part  she  had 
always  lived  with  gentry,  and  had  no  patience  with  low 
agitators,  and  that  she  was  quite  sure  it  was  his  own  chil- 
dren, and  none  else,  that  he  had  to  thank  for  the  state  of 


970 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


bis  garden — if,  indeed,  there  was  anything  wrong  with  it 
at  all,  which  she  doubted. 

Under  the  windows  of  the  refreshment-room  were  two 
narrow  flower-beds.  These  Jim  took  care  never  to  touch, 
aflecting  to  consider  them  the  exclusive  property  of  Mrs. 
Macfarlane.  They  were  long  left  uncultivated,  an  eyesore 
to  the  station-master;  but  one  day  Kelly,  the  porter,  came 
to  him  with  an  air  of  mystery,  to  say  that  “ th^  ould  wan 
— for  by  this  term  was  Mrs.  Macfarlane  generally  indi- 
cated— was  settin^  somethin’  in  the  beds  beyant.” 

Jim  came  out  of  his  office,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
platform  with  an  air  of  elaborate  unconsciousness.  Sure 
enough,  there  was  Mrs.  Macfarlane  gardening.  She  had 
donned  old  gloves  and  a clean  checked  apron,  and  trowel 
in  hand  was  breaking  up  the  caked  earth,  preparatory,  it 
would  seem,  to  setting  seeds. 

“ What  the  dickens  is  she  doin’?  ” asked  Jim,  when  he 
got  back. 

“Not  a wan  av  me  knows,”  said  Kelly.  “She’s  been 
grubbin’  there  since  tin  o’clock.” 

From  this  time  Mrs.  Macfarlane  was  assiduous  in  the 
care  of  her  two  flower-beds.  Every  day  she  might  be  seen 
weeding  or  watering,  and  though  Jim  steadily  averted  his 
gaze,  he  was  devoured  by  curiosity  as  to  the  probable  re- 
sults. What  on  earth  did  she  want  to  grow?  The  weeks 
passed.  Tiny  green  seedlings  at  last  pushed  their  way 
through  the  soil,  and  in  due  course  the  nature  of  the  plants 
became  evident.  Jim  was  highly  excited,  and  rushed  home 
to  tell  his  wife. 

“ Be  the  Hokey,  Mary,”  he  said,  “ ’t  is  lilies  she  has 
there;  an’  may  I never  sin,  but  it’s  my  belief  they’re 
Orange  lilies;  an’  if  thej^  are,  I ’ll  root  ev’ry  wan  av  thim 
out,  if  I die  forrit.” 

“ Be  quiet  now,”  said  Mary,  a pacific  creature  who  spent 
much  of  her  time  soothing  her  quick-tempered  husband. 
“ Sure  she  wouldn’t  do  the  likes  o’  that  on  ye.  ’T  is  too 
hasty  y’  are,  Jim.  How  d’ye  know  they’re  lilies  at  all? 
For  the  love  o’  God  keep  her  tongue  off  ye,  an’  don’t  be 
puttin’  yersel’  in  her  way.” 

“Whisht,  woman,  d’ye  think  I’m  a fool?  ’T  is  lilies 
th’  are  annyways,  an’  time  ’ll  tell  if  they  ’re  Orange  or  no; 


CHARLOTTE  0 VON  OR  EC  C LEE,  971 

but  faith,  if  th  ’are,  I won’t  sthand  it.  I ’ll  complain  to  the 
Boord.” 

Sure  the  Boord  ’ll  be  on  her  side,  man.  They  ’ll  say 
why  shudden’t  she  have  Orange  lilies  if  she  likes.” 

“ Ah,  Mary,  ’t  is  too  simple  y’  are  inthirely.  Have  ye 
no  sperrit,  woman  alive,  to  let  her  ride  rough-shod  over  uz 
this  way?  ^ Make  a mouse  o’  yerself  an’  the  cat  ’ll  ate  ye’ 
’s  a thrue  sayin’.  Sure  Saint  Pether  himself  cudn’t  sthand 
it — an’  be  the  Piper  that  played  before  Moses,  I won’t.” 

“ Ye  misforthunit  man,  don’t  be  dhrawin’  down  ruc- 
tions on  yer  head.  Haven’t  ye  yer  childher  to  think  about? 
An’  don’t  be  throublin’  yerself  over  what  she  does.  ’T  is 
plazin’  her  y’  are,  whin  she  sees  you  ’re  mad.  Take  no  no- 
tice, man,  an’  p’raps  she  ’ll  shtop.” 

‘‘  The  divil  fly  away  wid  her  for  a bitther  ould  sarpint. 
The  vinom’s  in  her  sure  enough.  Why  should  I put  up  wid 
her,  I ’d  like  to  know?  ” 

Ah,  keep  yer  tongue  between  yer  teeth,  Jim.  ’T  is  too 
onprudent  y’  are.  Not  a worrd  ye  say  but  is  brought  back 
to  her  by  some  wan.  Have  sinse,  man.  You  ’ll  go  sayin’ 
that  to  Joe  Kell^^,  an’  he  ’ll  have  it  over  the  town  in  no 
time,  an’  some  wan  ’ll  carr^^  it  to  her.” 

An’  do  ye  think  I care  a thrawneen  ^ for  the  likes  av 
her?  Faith,  not  a pin.  If  you  got  }^er  way,  Mary,  ye ’d 
have  me  like  the  man  that  was  hanged  for  sayin’  nothin’. 
Sure  I never  did  a hand’s  turn  agin  her,  an’  ’t  is  a mane 
thrick  av  her  to  go  settin’  Orange  lilies  over  foreninst  me, 
an’  she  knowin’  me  opinions.” 

Faith,  I ’ll  not  say  it  wasn’t,  Jim,  if  they  are  Orange 
lilies : but  sure  ye  don’t  know  rightly  yet  what  they  are,  an’ 
in  God’s  name  keep  quiet  till  ye  do.” 

Soothed  somewhat  by  his  wife,  O’Brien  recovered  his 
composure,  and  as  at  that  moment  Joe  Kelly  rang  the  sta- 
tion bell,  announcing  that  the  eleven  o’clock  mail  train 
from  Dublin  was  signaled,  he  hurried  out  to  his  duties. 

The  days  went  by.  The  lilies  grew  taller  and  taller. 
They  budded,  they  bloomed;  and,  sure  enough,  Jim  had 
been  in  the  right — Orange  lilies  they  proved  to  be. 

“ They  ’ll  make  a fine  show  for  the  Twelfth  of  July,  I ’m 
thinkin’,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane  complacently  to  Head 
Constable  Cullen,  who  had  stopped  to  pass  her  the  time 

1 Tliraivneen,  a stem  of  grass. 


972 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


o’  day,”  as  she  walked  by  her  beds,  swinging  a dripping 
watering-pot. 

So  they  will,  ma’am,”  said  the  Constable;  so  they 
will.  But  what  does  Misther  O’Brien  say  to  them?  ” 

I ’m  sure  I don’t  know,  an’  I don’t  care,”  replied  Mrs. 
Macfarlane  loftily.  “ I haven’t  consulted  Misther  O’Brien. 
He ’s  nothin’  tu  me.” 

To  be  sure — to  be  sure;  but  bein’  Orange  lilies,  ye  know, 
an’  we  have  so  few  of  them  about  here;  and  him  bein’  such 
an  out-an’-out  Nationalist,  an'  a Catholic,  I just  thought 
it  might  make  a differ  between  yez.” 

An’  if  it  does,  it  won’t  be  the  first.  I ’m  proud  tu  differ 
from  the  likes  of  him.  You ’ve  no  sperrit  down  here  to 
make  a fellow  like  that  a station-master,  him  that  was  a 
common  porter  to  start  with ; and  as  for  his  low  opinions, 
I scorn  them — an  ignorant,  benighted,  Papish  rebel.” 

Come,  come,  ma’am : ’t  was  the  Company  made  him 
station-master,  not  uz.  Jim  isn’t  a bad  soort  an’  you  ’re 
givin’  him  too  hard  names,  so  y’  are.” 

He ’s  a murtherin’  vagabone,  like  all  his  kind,”  said 
Mrs.  Macfarlane  with  energy ; an’  I ’m  surprised  at  yu,^ 
Head  Constable,  so  I am — yu,  a decent  man,  that  has  had 
the  benefit  of  the  pure  gospel,  takin’  his  part.” 

But  sure,  ma’am,  the  Bible  bids  uz  love  our  inimies.” 

So  it  does,  but  it  bids  us  have  no  part  with  evil-doers, 
an’  woon  text  is  as  good  as  another,  I ’m  thinkin’.  Ah, 
times  is  changed  when  a man  like  yUy  wearin’  the  Queen’s 
uniform  an’  all,  can  be  found  to  wrest  the  Scriptures  to  the 
advantage  of  a fellow  like  that.” 

Sure,  ma’am,  I ’m  for  pace  an’  concord.  What ’s  the 
use  of  fightin’?  We ’ve  all  got  our  own  idayas,  an’  maybe 
in  til’  ind,  wan  is  as  right  as  another.” 

I ’m  surprised  at  you.  Head  Constable,  that  I am ; and 
if  my  poor  father  was  alive  this  day  to  hear  yu,  he ’d  say 
the  same.  God  be  with  the  time  when  he  marched  through 
Strabane  at  the  head  of  six  hundherd  Orangemen  in  full 
regalia,  playin’  ^ Croppies  lie  down.’  ” 

Speaking  thus,  Mrs.  Macfarlane  turned  abruptly  into 
the  refreshment-room,  and  banged  the  door  behind  her. 

The  Head  Constable  smiled  and  looked  foolish,,  for  he 

1 In  the  north  of  Ireland  yu  and  tu  are  pronounced  as  almost  the  exact 
equivalents  of  the  French  yeux  and  tu. 


CHARLOTTE  O^CONOR  ECCLE8. 


973 


was  a great  man  in  a small  way,  and  accustomed  to  be 
treated  with  respect;  then  he  walked  off  whistling  to  hide 
his  discomfiture. 

At  the  time  of  the  blossoming  of  the  Orange  lilies  James 
O’Brien  was  not  at  home,  having  had  to  go  some  twenty 
miles  down  the  line  on  official  business.  The  obnoxious 
flowers  took  advantage  of  his  absence  to  make  a gay  show. 
When  he  returned,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Mrs.  Macfarlane 
was  away,  and  had  shut  up  the  refreshment-room,  but  had 
not  locked  it.  No  one  locks  doors  in  Toomevara  unless 
their  absence  is  to  be  lengthy.  She  had  left  “ King  Wil- 
liam ” behind,  and  told  Joe  Kelly  to  take  care  of  the  dog, 
in  case  he  should  be  lonely,  for  she  had  been  invited  to  the 
wedding  of  an  old  fellow-servant,  the  butler  at  Lord  Dun- 
an way’s,  who  was  to  be  married  that  day  to  the  steward’s 
daughter. 

All  this  Joe  Kelly  told  the  station-master  on  his  return, 
but  he  did  not  say  a word  about  the  Orange  lilies,  being 
afraid  of  an  explosion ; and,  as  he  said,  detarmined  not 
to  make  or  meddle,  but  just  to  let  him  find  it  out  him- 
self.” 

For  quite  a time  Jim  was  occupied  over  way-bills  in  his 
little  office ; but  at  last  his  attention  was  distracted  by  the 
long-continued  howling  and  yelping  of  a dog. 

Let  the  baste  out,  can’t  ye?  ” he  at  length  said  to  Kelly. 

I can’t  stand  listening  to  ’um  anny  longer.” 

“ I was  afeard  ’t  was  run  over  he  might  be,  agin’  she 
came  back,”  said  Kelly,  an’  so  I shut  ’um  up.” 

Sure  there ’s  no  danger.  There  won’t  be  a thrain  in  for 
the  next  two  hour,  an’  if  he  was  run  over  it  self,  God  knows 
he ’d  be  no  loss.  ’T  isn’t  meself  ’ud  grieve  for  ’um,  th’  ill- 
favored  cur.” 

King  William  ” was  accordingly  released. 

When  O’Brien  had  finished  his  task,  he  stood  for  a time 
at  the  office-door,  his  hands  crossed  behind  him  supporting 
his  coat-tails,  his  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  on  the  sky.  Pres- 
ently he  started  for  his  usual  walk  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form, when  his  ej^e  was  at  once  caught  by  the  flare  of  the 
stately  rows  of  Orange  lilies. 

“ Be  the  Holy  Poker,”  he  exclaimed,  but  I was  right ! 
’T  is  orange  th’  are,  sure  enough.  What  ’ll  Mary  say  now? 
Faith,  ’t  is  lies  they  do  be  tellin’  whin  they  say  there ’s  no 


974 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


riptiles  in  Ireland.  That  ould  woman  bangs  Banagher,  an^ 
Banagher  bangs  the  divil.’^ 

He  stopped  in  front  of  the  obnoxious  flowers. 

IsnT  it  the  murthering  pity  there ’s  nothin’  I can  plant 
to  spite  her.  She  has  the  pull  over  me  intirely.  Shamer- 
ogues  makes  no  show  at  all — you ’d  pass  them  unbe- 
knownst,— while  Orange  lilies  ye  can  see  a mile  off.  Now, 
Avho  but  herself  ’ud  be  up  to  the  likes  o’  this?  ” 

At  the  moment  he  became  aware  of  an  extraordinary 
commotion  among  the  lilies,  and  looking  closer  perceived 
King  William  ” in  their  midst,  scratching  as  if  for  bare 
life,  scattering  mould,  leaves,  and  bulbs  to  the  four  winds, 
and  with  every  stroke  of  his  hind-legs  dealing  destruction 
to  the  carefully  tended  flowers.  • 

The  sight  filled  Jim  with  sudden  gladness. 

“ More  power  to  the  dog ! ” he  cried,  with  irrepressible 
glee.  More  power  to  ’um ! Sure  he  has  more  sinse  than 
his  missis.  ^ King  William,’  indeed,  an’  he  rootin’  up 
Orange  lilies ! Ho,  ho ! Tare  an’  ouns ; but ’t  is  the  biggest 
joke  that  iver  I hard  in  my  life.  More  power  to  ye!  Good 
dog ! ” 

Kubbing  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  he  watched 
King  William  ” at  his  work  of  devastation,  and,  regret- 
fully be  it  confessed,  when  the  dog  paused,  animated  him 
to  fresh  efforts  by  thrilling  cries  of  “ Rats ! ” 

King  William  ” sprang  wildly  hither  and  thither,  run- 
ning from  end  to  end  of  the  beds,  snapping  the  brittle  lily 
stems,  scattering  the  blossoms. 

Be  gum,  but  it ’s  great.  Look  at  ’um  now.  Cruel  wars 
to  the  Queen  o’  Spain  if  iver  I seen  such  shport!  Go  it, 

‘ King  William ! ’ Smash  thim,  me  boy ! Good  dog.  Out 
wid  thim ! ” roared  Jim,  tears  of  mirth  streaming  down 
his  cheeks.  “ Faith,  ’t  is  mad  she  ’ll  be.  I ’d  give  sixpence 
to  see  her  face.  O Lord ! O Lord ! Sure  it ’s  the  biggest 
joke  that  iver  was.” 

At  last  King  William  ” tired  of  the  game,  but  only 
when  every  lily  lay  low,  and  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  carefully 
tended  flower-beds  were  a chaos  of  broken  stalks  and 
trampled  blossoms. 

It  was  the  quietest  hour  of  the  afternoon  at  Toomevara 
station.  Kelly  was  busy  in  the  goods-store;  Finnerty,  the 
other  porter^,  had  just  sauntered  across  to  Mrs.  M’Glynn’s 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  ECCLES, 


975 


for  a half-glass  of  whisky,  so  Jim  had  all  the  fun  to  him- 
self, and  grudged  losing  any  by  rushing  in  search  of  some 
one  to  share  it.  Now,  gloating  over  the  destruction 
wrought,  he  picked  up  King  William  ’’  by  the  scrulf  of 
the  neck,  bundled  him  into  the  refreshment-room  and  shut 
the  door,  then,  beaming  with  pure  joy,  rushed  off  to  tell  his 
subordinate  the  news. 

Joe,’^  he  gasped,  peering  into  the  dusky  goods-store, 
I ^m  fit  to  be  tied.  What  d^  ye  think?  Th^  ould  woman’s 
Orange  lilies  is  ail  knocked  into  smithereens.” 

Be  the  laws,  sir ! ye  don’t  say  so?  ” cried  Kelly.  Sure, 
I thought  whin  ye ’d  see  ’um  ye ’d  go  mad  an’  break 
things.” 

But,  Joe,  the  fun  av  it  is,  I never  laid  a finger  on  thim. 
’T  was  the  dog — ’t  was  ‘ King  William,’  if  ye  plaze,  that 
did  the  work;  ^ King  William,’  begorra,  rootin’  up  Orange 
liiesi  Faith,  ’t  was  like  Teague’s  cocks  that  fought  wan 
another  though  they  were  all  of  the  same  breed.” 

The  dog?  ” said  Kelly,  and  there  was  an  accent  in  the 
interrogation  that  angered  the  station-master. 

Amn’t  I afther  tellin’  you  ’t  was  the  dog:  who  else? 
Maybe  ye  don’t  b’leeve  me?  ” 

Oh,  I do  b’leeve  ye,  sir.  Why  wouldn’t  I?  On’y  I hard 
ye  say  ye ’d  pull  thim  up  if ’t  was  Orange  lilies  they  was, 

an’  so  I thought  maybe ” 

There ’s  manny ’s  the  thing  a man  sez,  that  he  doesn’t 
do : an’  annyhow  I didn’t  do  this,  but  begad  ’t  was  fine 
shport  all  the  same,  an’  I ’m  not  a bit  sorry.  ’T  would  be 
more  to  me  than  a tin-poun’  note  this  minnit  if  I could  see 
the  face  av  her  whin  she  finds  it  out.” 

She  ’ll  be  back  soon  now,”  said  Kelly,  “ an’  I misdoubt 
but  we  ’ll  hear  from  her  before  long.” 

Kelly’s  words  were  speedily  justified. 

As  O’Brien  in  high  good-humor,  having  communicated 
the  side-splitting  joke  to  Mary  and  Finnerty,  was  busy  over 
an  account-book,  Kelly  came  in. 

She ’s  back,”  he  whispered,  an’  she ’s  neither  to  hold 
nor  to  bind.  I was  watchin’  out,  an’  sure  ’t  was  shtruck 
all  of  a hape  she  was  whin  she  seen  thim  lilies;  an’  now 
I ’ll  take  me  oath  she ’s  goin’  to  come  here,  for,  begob,  she 
looks  as  cross  as  nine  highways.” 

“ Letter  come,”  chuckled  O’Brien,  I ’m  ready  forrer.” 


976 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


At  this  moment  the  office-door  was  burst  open  with  vio- 
lence, and  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  in  her  best  Sunday  costume, 
bonnet,  black  gloves,  and  umbrella  included,  her  face  very 
pale  save  the  cheek-bones,  where  two  bright  pink  spots 
burned,  entered  the  room. 

Misther  O’Brien,’^  she  said,  in  a voice  that  trembled 
with  rage,  will  you  please  to  inform  me  the  meanin’  of 
this  dastardly  outrage?  ’’ 

Arrah,  what  outrage  are  ye  talkin’  ov,  ma’am?” 
asked  O’Brien  innocently.  “ Sure,  be  the  looks  av  ye,  I 
think  somethin’  has  upset  ye  iutirely.  Faith,  you  ’re 
lookin’  as  angry  as  if  you  were  vexed,  as  the  sayin’  is.” 

Oh,  to  be  sure!  A great  wonder  indeed  that  I should 
be  vexed.  ^ Crabbit  was  that  cause  had,’  ” interrupted  Mrs. 
Macfarlane  with  a sneer.  You  ’re  not  deceivin’  me,  sir. 
Full  well  you  know,  Misther  O’Brien,  full  well  you  know 
that  it ’s  good  reason  to  be  angry  you ’ve  given  me  this 
day.  Full  Avell  you  know  the  outrage  tu  which  I am  al- 
ludin’. I ’m  not  taken  in  by  your  pretinces,  but  if  there ’s 
law  in  the  land  or  justice  I ’ll  have  it  of  yu.” 

Would  ye  mind,  ma’am,”  said  O’Brien  imperturbably, 
for  his  superabounding  delight  made  him  feel  quite  calm 
and  superior  to  the  angry  woman — would  ye  just  mind 
statin’  in  plain  English  what  you  're  talkin’  about,  for  not 
a wan  av  me  knows  yit?  ” 

Oh,  yu  son  of  Judas!  Oh,  yu  deceivin’  wretch,  as  if 
it  wasn’t  yu  that  is  afther  desthroyin’  1113"  flower-beds ! ” 
Ah,  thin  it  is  yer  ould  flower-beds  you  ’re  makin’ 
all  this  row  about?  Yer  dirt}"  Orange  lilies?  Sure  ’t  is 
dared  out  of  the  place  they  ought  t’ve  been  long  ago  for 
weeds.  ’T  is  mesel’  that ’s  glad  they  ’re  gone,  an’  so  I tell 
ye  plump  an’  plain,  bud  as  for  me  desthroyin’  them,  sorra 
finger  iver  I laid  on  thim.  I wouldn’t  demane  mesel’.” 
Hould  yer  tongue  before  }^e  choke  with  lies,”  cried  Mrs. 
jMacfarlane  in  towering  wrath.  Who  but  }"erself  would 
do  the  like?  Is  it  when  I can  get  witnesses  that  heard  yu 
swear  yu ’d  pull  them  up?  Don’t  try  to  fool  me.” 

Begorra,  you  ’re  right  enough  in  that.  So  I did  say  it, 
an’  so  I might  have  done  it  too,  on’y  it  was  done  for  me, 
an’  the  throuble  spared  me.  I wasn’t  nixt  or  nigh  thim 
whin  the  desthruction  began.” 

An’  if  yu  please,  Misther  O’Brien,”  said  Mrs.  Macfar- 


CHARLOTTE  OVONOR  ECCLE8, 


977 


lane  with  ferocious  politeness,  will  yu  kindly  mintion,  if 
yu  did  not  do  the  job,  who  did? 

Faith,  that ’s  where  the  joke  comes  in,^’  said  O’Brien 
pleasantly.  ’T  was  the  very  same  baste  that  ruinated  my 
roses,  bad  cess  to  him;  yer  precious  pet,  ‘ King  William.’  ” 
Oh  I is  it  leavin’  it  on  the  dog  y’  are,  yu  traitorous 
Jesuit?  the  poor  wee  dog  that  never  harmed  yu?  Sure ’t  is 
only  a Papist  would  think  of  a mean  trick  like  that  to  shift 
the  blame.” 

The  color  rose  to  O’Brien’s  face. 

‘‘  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  ma’am,”  he  said  with  labored  civil- 
ity, wid  yer  permission  we  ’ll  lave  me  religion  out  o’  this. 
Maybe  if  ye  say  much  more,  I might  be  losin’  me  timper 
wid  ye.” 

Much  I mind  what  yu  lose,”  cried  Mrs.  Macfarlane, 
once  more  flinging  her  manners  to  the  winds.  It ’s 
thransported  the  likes  of  yu  should  be  for  a set  of  robbin’, 
murderin’,  destroyin’  thraytors.” 

Have  a care,  ma’am,  how  ye  spake  to  yer  betthers. 
Bobbin’,  deceivin’,  murdherin’,  destroyin’  thraytors  in- 
deed I I like  that  I What  brought  over  the  lot  av  yez, 
AVilliamites,  an’  Cromwaylians,  an’  English,  an’  Scotch, 
but  to  rob,  an’  decave,  an’  desthroy,  an’  murdher  uz,  an’ 
stale  our  land,  an’  bid  uz  go  ^ to  hell  or  to  Connaught,’  an’ 
grow  fat  on  what  was  ours  before  iver  yez  came,  an’  thin 
jibe  uz  for  bein’  poor?  Thraytors!  Thraytor  yerself,  for 
that ’s  what  the  lot  av  yez  is.  Who  wants  yez  here  at  all?  ” 

Exasperated  beyond  endurance,  Mrs.  Macfarlane  struck 
at  the  station-master  with  her  neat  black  umbrella,  and 
had  given  him  a nasty  cut  across  the  brow,  when  Kelly  in- 
terfered, as  well  as  Finnerty  and  Mrs.  O’Brien,  who  rushed 
in  attracted  by  the  noise.  Between  them  O’Brien  was  held 
back  under  a shower  of  blows,  and  the  angry  woman 
hustled  outside,  whence  she  retreated  to  her  own  quar- 
ters, muttering  threats  all  the  way. 

Oh,  Jim  agra!  ’t  is  bleedin’  y’  are,”  shrieked  poor  anx- 
ious ]\Iary  wildly.  Oh,  wirra,  wirra,  why  did  ye  dhraw 
her  on  ye?  Sure  I tould  ye  how ’t  would  be.  As  sure  as 
God  made  little  apples  she  ’ll  process  ye,  an’  she  has  the 
quality  on  her  side.” 

“ Let  her,”  said  Jim.  Much  good  she  ’ll  get  by  it.  Is 
it  makin’  a liar  av  me  she ’d  be  whin  I tould  her  I didn’t 

9— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


978 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


touch  her  ould  lilies.  Sure  I ’ll  process  her  back  for 
assaultin’  an’  battherin’  me.  Ye  all  saw  her,  an’  me  not 
touchin  her,  the  caUiagli.’’  ^ 

Begorra,  ’t  is  thrue  for  him,”  said  Kelly.  She  flag- 
ellated him  wid  her  umbrelly,  an’  sorra  blow  missed  bud 
the  wan  that  didn’t  hit,  and  on’y  I Avas  here,  an’  lit  on  her 
suddent  like  a bee  on  a posy,  she ’d  liaA^e  had  his  life,  so  she 
would.” 

The  laAA'suit  between  Mrs.  Macfarlane  and  O’Brien  never 
came  off.  Perhaps  on  reflection  the  former  saw  she  could 
not  proA^e  that  the  station-master  had  uprooted  her  plants, 
or,  AA  hat  was  more  probable,  the  sight  of  him  going  about 
Avith  his  head  bound  up  made  her  realize  that  he  might  be 
able  to  turn  the  tables  on  her.  Accordingly,  she  meditated 
a scheme  by  which  to  pay  him  out,”  as  she  phrased  it, 
for  his  conduct,  AA’ithout  the  interA^ention  of  judge  or  jury. 
Not  for  an  instant  did  she  forget  her  cause  of  offense,  or 
belieA^e  O’Brien’s  story  that  it  was  the  dog  that  had  de- 
stroyed her  Orange  lilies.  After  some  consideration  she 
hit  on  an  ingenious  deAuce,  that  satisfied  her  as  being  at 
once  supremely  anoying  to  her  enemy  and  well  within  the 
laAv.  Her  lilies,  emblems  of  the  religious  and  political 
faith  that  were  in  her,  were  gone;  but  she  still  had  means 
to  testify  to  her  beliefs,  and  protest  against  O’Brien  and 
all  that  he  represented  to  her  mind. 

Next  day,  AAdien  the  midday  train  had  just  steamed  into 
the  station,  eTim  was  startled  by  hearing  a wild  cheer. 

Hi,  ^ King  William  I ’ Hi,  ^ King  William  I ’ Come  back, 
^ King  William ! ’ ^ King  William,’  my  darlin’,  ^ King  Wil- 
liam I ’ ” 

The  air  rang  Avith  the  shrill  party-cry,  and  AAdien  Jim 
rushed  out  he  found  that  Mrs.  Macfarlane  had  allowed  her 
dog  to  run  doAvn  the  platform  just  as  the  passengers  were 
alighting,  and  was  noAV  folloAving  him,  under  the  pretense 
of  calling  him  back.  There  AA’as  nothing  to  be  done.  The 
dog’s  name  certainly  was  King  William,”  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
farlane was  at  liberty  to  recall  him  if  he  strayed. 

Jim  stood  for  a moment  like  one  transfixed. 

Faith,  I b’leeA^e ’t  is  the  divil’s  grandmother  she  is,”  he 
exclaimed. 

Mrs.  Macfarlane  passed  him  with  a deliberately  unsee- 

^ Calliagh,  hag. 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  ECCLE8. 


979 


ing  eye.  Had  he  been  the  gatepost  she  could  not  have 
taken  less  notice  of  his  presence,  as,  having  made  her  way 
to  the  extreme  end  of  the  platform  cheering  for  King 
William,’^  she  picked  up  her  dog,  and  marched  back  in 
triumph. 

I wonder  how  he  likes  that?  she  said  to  herself  with 
a defiant  toss  of  the  head,  and  a pleasing  conviction  that 
he  did  not  like  it  at  all. 

Oh,  say  nothin’  to  her,  Jim ! Oh,  Jim,  for  God’s  sake 
say  nothin’  to  her  I ” pleaded  Mary. 

I won’t,”  said  Jim  grimly.  Not  a word.  But  if  she 
does  id  again,  I ’ll  be  ready  forrer,  so  I will.  I ’ll  make  her 
sup  sorrow.” 

Speedily  did  it  become  evident  that  Mrs.  Macfarlane  was 
pursuing  a regular  plan  of  campaign,  for  at  the  arrival  of 
every  train  that  entered  the  station  that  day,  she  went 
through  the  same  performance  of  letting  loose  the  dog  and 
then  pursuing  him  dovrn  the  platform,  waving  her  arms 
and  yelling  for  King  William.” 

By  the  second  challenge,  Jim  had  risen  to  the  situation 
and  formed  his  counterplot.  He  saw  and  heard  her  in 
stony  silence,  apparently  as  indifferent  to  her  tactics  as 
she  to  his  presence;  but  he  was  only  biding  his  time.  No 
sooner  did  passengers  alight  and  enter  the  refreshment- 
room,  than,  having  just  given  them  time  to  be  seated,  he 
rushed  up,  threw  open  the  door  of  his  enemy’s  head- 
quarters, and,  putting  in  his  head,  cried : 

Take  yer  places,  gintlemin,  immaydiately.  The  thrain ’s 
just  off.  Hurry  up,  will  yez ! She ’s  away.” 

The  hungry  and  discomfited  passengers  hurried  out,  pell- 
mell,  and  Mrs.  Macfarlane  was  left  speechless  with  indig- 
nation. 

I bet  I ’ve  got  the  whip-hand  av  her  this  time,”  chuckled 
Jim,  as  he  gave  the  signal  to  start. 

Mrs.  Macfarlaue’s  spirit,  however,  was  not  broken. 
From  morning  until  night,  whether  the  day  was  wet  or 
fine,  she  greeted  the  arrival  of  each  train  by  loud  cries  for 
King  William,”  and  on  each  occasion  Jim  retorted  by 
bundling  out  all  her  customers  before  they  could  touch 
bite  or  sup. 

If  those  laugh  best  who  laugh  last  O’Brien  certainly  had 
the  victory  in  this  curious  contest,  for  the  result  of  his 


980 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


activity  was  that,  during  all  the  time  their  feud  lasted, 
Mrs.  Macfarlane  scarcely  made  a penny.  She  began  to 
look  worn  and  anxious,  but  was  still  defiant,  still  indomi- 
table. 

“Ah  thin!  Jim,  how  can  ye  keep  id  up?’’  asked  Mary. 
“ Sure ’t  isn’t  like  ye  at  all  to  be  goin’  on  that  ways.  ’T  is 
you  ought  to  have  the  sinse,  a married  man,  with  yer  busi- 
ness to  look  afther,  an’  callin’  yerself  a Catholic  too. 
Faith,  I dunno  what  Father  McCarthy  ’ll  say  to  ye  whin  ye 
go  to  yer  duty.  Givin’  bad  example  like  that  to  yer  own 
childher.” 

“ How  can  she  keep  id  up?  ” asked  Jim.  “ She  began  id, 
and  let  her  shtop  first.” 

“ I know  she  did,  but  what  id  ye  expect  from  her?  God 
help  her,  she ’s  that  bitther,  gall  isn’t  in  it  with  her.  Sure 
you  and  her  is  the  laughin’-shtock  av  iviry  wan  that  comes 
nigh  the  shtation.  The  shmall  boys  do  be  crowdin’  in  to 
hear  her,  an’  see  ye  chasin’  out  her  customers  afther.” 

“ Let  her  shtop  first,”  repeated  Jim.  “ In  all  me  born 
da}^s,  Mary,  I nivir  saw  a woman  like  ye  for  bein’  down  on 
yer  own  husban’.  ’T  is  ashamed  of  ye  I am  for  not 
shtandin’  up  betther  for  yer  side.  Wasn’t  it  she  gave  me 
the  provoke?  Who  else?  I done  her  no  harrm.  Why  did 
she  begin  at  me?  ” 

“ Maybe,  but  yer  doin’  her  harrm  now.” 

“ So  I am,  so  I am,”  said  Jim  with  relish.  “ Faith  she 
must  be  sorry  she  began  the  game.  Trbth  she ’s  like  the 
tailor  that  sewed  for  nothin’,  and  foun’  the  thread  himself. 
Not  much  she ’s  makin’  these  times,  I ’m  thinkin’.” 

“ Oh,  wirra,  Jim ! What ’s  come  to  ye  at  all?  ’T  is  the 
kind-hearted  man  ye  used  to  be,  an’  now  I don’t — ” 

But  Jim  had  had  enough  of  conjugal  remonstrance,  and 
went  out  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

The  feud  still  continued. 

Each  day  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  gaunter,  fiercer,  paler,  and 
more  resolute  in  ignoring  the  station-master’s  presence, 
flaunted  her  principles  up  and  down  the  platform.  Each 
day  did  Jim  hurry  the  departure  of  the  trains  and  sweep 
off  her  customers.  Never  before  had  there  been  such 
punctuality  known  at  Toomevara,  which  is  situated  on  an 
easy-going  line,  where  usually  the  guard,  when  indignant 


CHARLOTTE  O'CONOR  EC C LEE. 


981 


tourists  pointed  out  that  the  express  was  some  twenty  min- 
utes late,  was  accustomed  to  reply : 

‘‘  Why,  so  she  is.  ’T  is  thrue  for  ye.” 

One  day,  however,  Mrs.  Macfarlane  did  not  appear. 

She  had  come  out  for  the  first  train,  walking  a trifle 
feebly,  and  uttering  her  war-cry  in  a somewhat  quavering 
voice.  When  the  next  came  no  Mrs.  Macfarlane  greeted  it. 

The  small  boys  who  daily  gathered  to  see  the  sight — any- 
thing is  worth  looking  at  in  Toomevara — crept  away  dis- 
appointed when  the  train,  after  a delay  quite  like  that  of 
old  times,  at  last  steamed  out  of  the  station.  Jim  himself 
was  perplexed,  and  a little  aggrieved.  He  had  grown  used 
to  the  daily  strife,  and  missed  the  excitement  of  retorting 
on  his  foe. 

Maybe  T is  tired  of  it  she  is,”  he  speculated.  Time 
forrer.  She  knows  now  she  won’t  have  things  all  her  own 
way.  She ’s  too  domineerin’  by  half.” 

“ What ’s  Avrong  with  th’  ould  wan,  sir?  ” asked  Joe 
Kelly  when  he  met  O’Brien.  She  didn’t  shtir  whin  she 
hard  the  thrain.” 

Faith,  I dunno,”  said  Jim.  Hatchin’  more  disthur- 
bance,  I ’ll  bet.  Faith,  she ’s  nivir  well  but  whin  she ’s 
doin’  mischief.” 

She  looks  mighty  donny  ^ these  times,”  remarked 
Kelly,  but  his  superior  appeared  to  take  no  heed. 

Secretly,  however,  he  was  uneasy,  and  blustered  a little 
to  himself  to  keep  up  his  spirits. 

’T  is  lyin’  low  she  is,”  he- muttered,  to  shpring  some 
other  divilmeut  on  me,  but  I ’m  up  to  her.” 

It  would  not  do,  and  after  a time  he  found  himself  wan- 
dering in  the  direction  of  the  refreshment-room.  There 
was  no  sign  of  life  visible,  so  far  as  Jim  could  see;  but  he 
was  unwilling  to  observe  too  closely,  for  fear  of  catching 
Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  eye  while  in  the  act  of  taking  an  undig- 
nified interest  in  her  proceedings. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  the  windows  at  the  back 
had  the  lower  panes  muffed  to  imitate  ground  glass,  and 
that  one  was  scratched  in  the  corner,  thus  affording  a con- 
A^enient  peephole.  He  stole  round  as  if  on  burglary  intent, 
with  many  cautious  glances  to  right  and  left;  then  assured 
that  no  one  was  watching  him,  peered  in.  From  his  posi- 

^ Donny,  dauney,  delicate. 


982 


IRim  LITERATURE, 


tion  he  could  not  see  much,  but  he  discerned  a black  heap 
of  something  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  was 
sure  he  heard  a groan.  Considerably  startled,  he  hastened 
round  to  Kelly. 

Joe,^’  he  said,  maybe  y’  ought  just  to  look  in  an’  see 
if  anythin’  is. wrong  wid  th’  ould  woman.” 

An’  what  ’ud  be  wrong  wid  her?  ” said  Kelly  easily. 
He  hated  being  disturbed.  She  ’ll  be  out  to  meet  the  nixt 
thrain  as  fresh  as  a throut;  see  if  she  doesn’t.” 

All  the  same,  I think  ye ’d  better  go.” 

Sure  I ’ll  go  whin  I ’m  done  here.  I ’ve  a power  o’ 
worrk  to  git  through.” 

Work  indeed ! All  the  work  ye  do  will  nivir  kill  ye. 
Faith  3^011  ’re  as  lazy  as  Finn  McCool’s  dog,  that  rested  his 
head  agin’  the  wall  to  bark.” 

’T  is  aisy  for  ,ye  to  talk,”  said  Joe.  “ Sure  I ’ll  go  if  ye 
like,  sir,  bud  she  ’ll  shnap  the  head  off  av  me,”  and  he  dis- 
appeared in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  quarters. 

A moment  more,  and  Jim  heard  him  shouting,  Misther 
O’Brien  I Misther  O’Brien ! ” He  ran  at  the  sound.  There, 
a tumbled  heap,  lay  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  no  longer  a defiant 
virago,  but  a weak,  sickly,  elderly  woman,  partly  supported 
on  Joe  Kell^^’s  knee,  her  face  ghastly  pale,  her  arms  hang- 
ing limp. 

Be  me  sowl,  bud  I think  she ’s  dyin’,”  cried  Kelly. 

She  just  raised  her  head  whin  she  saw  me  an’  wint  off  in 
a faint.” 

La}'  her  flat,  Joe,  la}^  her  flat.  Where ’s  the  whisky?  ” 

Jim  rushed  behind  the  counter,  rummaged  amongst  the 
bottles,  and  came  back  with  half  a glass  of  whisky  in  his 
hand. 

Lave  her  to  me,”  he  said,  an  do  you  run  an’  tell  the 
missus  to  come  here  at  wanst.  Maybe  she  ’ll  know  what 
to  do.” 

He  tried  to  force  the  whisky  between  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s 
set  teeth,  spilling  a good  deal  of  it  in  the  process.  She 
opened  her  eyes  for  a moment,  looked  at  him  vacantly,  and 
fainted  again. 

Mary  came  in  to  find  her  husband  gazing  in  a bewildered 
fashion  at  his  prostrate  enemy,  and  took  command  in  a way 
that  excited  his  admiration. 

Here,”  said  she,  give  uz  a hand  to  move  her  on  to  the 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  ECCLES. 


983 


seat.  Jim,  do  ye  run  home  an’  get  Biddy  to  fill  two  or 
three  jars  wid  boilin’  wather,  an’  bring  thim  along  wid  a 
blanket.  She ’s  as  cowld  as  death.  Joe,  fly  off  wid  ye  for 
the  docther.” 

What  docther  will  I go  for,  ma’am?  ” 

“ The  firrst  ye  can  git,”  said  Mary,  promptly  beginning 
to  chafe  the  inanimate  woman’s  hands  and  loosen  her 
clothes. 

When  the  doctor  came,  he  found  Mrs.  Macfarlane  laid  on 
an  impromptu  couch  composed  of  two  of  the  cushioned 
benches  placed  side  by  side.  She  was  wrapped  in  blankets, 
had  hot  bottles  to  her  feet  and  sides,  and  a mustard  plaster 
over  her  heart. 

Bravo ! Mrs.  O’Brien,”  he  said.  “ I couldn’t  have  done 
better  myself.  I believe  you  have  saved  her  life  by  being 
so  quick — at  least,  saved  it  for  the  moment,  for  I think  she 
is  in  for  a severe  illness.  She  will  want  careful  nursing 
to  pull  her  through.” 

She  looks  rale  bad,”  assented  Mary. 

“ She  must  be  put  to  bed  at  once.  Where  does  she  live?  ” 

She  lodges  down  the  town,”  said  Mary,  at  old  Mrs. 
Smith’s  in  Castle  Street;  bud  sure  she  has  no  wan  to  look 
afther  her  there.” 

It  is  too  far  to  move  her  in  her  present  state.  The 
hospital  is  nearer;  I might  try  to  get  her  there.” 

As  he  spoke  Mrs.  Macfarlane  opened  her  eyes.  Appar- 
ently she  had  understood,  for  she  shook  her  head  with  some- 
thing of  her  former  energy,  and  exclaimed : No,  no!  ” 

What  did  you  say?  ” asked  the  doctor*  Don’t  you 
like  the  idea  of  the  hospital?  ” But  Mrs.  Macfarlane  had 
again  lapsed  into  unconsciousness. 

What  are  we  to  do  with  her?  ” said  the  doctor.  Is 
there  no  place  where  they  would  take  her  in?  ” 

Mary  glanced  at  Jim,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Sure  there ’s  a room  in  our  house,”  she  ventured,  after 
an  awkward  pause. 

“ The  very  thing,”  said  the  doctor,  if  you  don’t  mind 
the  trouble,  and  if  Mr.  O’Brien  does  not  object.” 

Jim  made  no  answer,  but  walked  out. 

He  doesn’t,  docther,”  cried  Mary.  Sure  he  has  a 
rale  good  heart.  I ’ll  run  off  now,  an’  get  the  bed  ready.” 
As  she  passed  Jim,  who  stood  sulkily  by  the  door,  she 


984 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


contrived  to  squeeze  his  hand.  God  bless  je,  me  own  Jim. 
You  ’ll  be  none  the  worse  forrit.  ’T  is  no  time  for  bearin’ 
malice,  an’  our  blessed  Lady  ’ll  pray  for  ye  this  day.” 

Jim  was  silent. 

’T  is  a cruel  shame  she  should  fall  on  uz,”  he  said  when 
his  wife  had  disappeared;  but  he  offered  no  further  resis- 
tance. 

Borne  on  an  impromptu  stretcher  by  Jim,  Joe,  Finnerty, 
and  the  doctor,  Mrs.  Macfarlane  was  carried  to  the  station- 
master’s  house,  undressed  by  Mary,  and  put  to  bed  in  the 
spotlessly  clean  whitewashed  upper  room. 

The  cold  and  shivering  had  now  passed  off,  and  she 
was  burning.  Nervous  fever,  the  doctor  anticipated.  She 
raved  about  her  dog,  about  Jim,  about  the  passengers,  her 
rent,  and  fifty  other  things  that  made  it  evident  her  circum- 
stances had  preyed  on  her  mind. 

Poor  Mary  was  afraid  of  her  at  times;  but  there  are  no 
trained  nurses  at  Toomevara,  and  guided  by  Dr.  Doherty’s 
directions  she  tried  to  do  her  best,  and  managed  wonder- 
fully well. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  Jim  did  not  like  having  the  in- 
valid in  the  house. 

“ Here ’s  everythin’  upside  down,”  he  grumbled, — Mary 
up  to  her  eyes  in  worrk,  an’  the  house  an’  childer  at  sixes 
an’  sevens,  an’  all  for  an  ould  hag  that  cudn’t  giv  uz  a 
civil  worrd.” 

Kitty  was  wonderfully  helpful  to  her  mother,  and  took 
care  of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  but  her  father  grumbled 
at  his  wife’s  absence. 

Why  on  earth  should  the  woman  be  saddled  on  uz?  ” 
he  asked.  Hasn’t  she  anny  frinds  av  her  own  soort,  I ’d 
like  to  know?  Sure,  ’t  is  hard  enough  for  uz  to  pay  our 
own  way,  let  alone  gettin’  beef-tay  an’  port  wine  for  the 
likes  av  her,  to  say  nothin’  about  her  wearin’  you,  Mary,  to 
skin  an’  bone.” 

‘‘  God  help  the  craythur,  sure  I do  it  willin’,”  said  Mary. 
“ We  cudn’t  lave  her  there  to  die  on  the  flure.” 

Faith,  I ’m  thinkin’  ’t  would  be  a long  time  before  she 
done  as  much  for  you.” 

Maybe,”  said  Mary,  an’  maybe  not ; but  sure,  where 
’ud  we  be  anny  betther  than  her,  if ’t  was  that  plan  we  wint 
on?” 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  EC C LEE. 


985 


Abj ’t  is  too  soft  j’  are  intirely/’  said  Jim,  going  off  in 
a huff. 

In  his  inmost  soul,  however,  he  was  pleased  with  his  wife, 
though  he  kept  saying  to  himself : 

If  it  had  on’y  been  annyone  else  besides  that  ould  crow, 
I wouldn’t  begrudge  it.” 

When  from  the  unhappy  woman’s  ravings  he  learned  how 
the  feud  had  preyed  on  her  mind,  and  discovered  the  straits 
to  which  she  had  been  reduced,  a dreadfully  guilty  feeling 
stole  over  him,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  combat. 

Sure,  ’t  was  her  own  fault,”  he  said  to  himself. 

Doesn’t  every  wan  know  I ’m  the  peaceablist  man  goin’, 
if  I ’m  on’y  let  alone?  She  desarved  to  be  paid  out,  so  she 
did,  an’  I ’m  not  wan  bit  sorry.” 

This  did  not  prevent  him  from  feeling  very  miserable. 
He  became  desperately  anxious  that  Mrs.  Macfarlane 
should'  not  die,  and  astonished  Mary  by  bringing  home 
various  jellies  and  meat  extracts  that  he  fancied  might  be 
good  for  the  patient,  but  he  did  this  with  a shy  and  hang- 
dog air  by  no  means  natural  to  him,  and  always  made  some 
ungracious  speech  as  to  the  trouble,  to  prevent  Mary  think- 
ing he  was  sorry  for  the  part  he  had  played.  He  replied 
with  a downcast  expression  to  all  inquiries  from  outsiders 
as  to  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  health,  but  he  brought  her  dog  into 
the  house,  and  fed  it  well. 

Not  for  her  sake,  God  knows,”  he  explained,  but  be- 
kase  the  poor  baste  was  frettin’,  an’  I didn’t  see  him  there 
wid  no  wan  to  look  to  him.” 

He  refused,  however,  to  stjde  the  animal  King  Wil- 
liam,” and  called  it  Billy  ” instead,  a name  to  which  it 
soon  learned  to  answer. 

One  evening,  ivhen  the  whitewashed  room  was  all  aglow 
with  crimson  light  that  flooded  through  the  western  win- 
dow, Mrs.  Macfarlane  returned  to  consciousness.  Mary 
was  sitting  by  the  bedside  sewing,  having  sent  out  the  chil- 
dren in  charge  of  Kitty  to  secure  quiet  in  the  house.  For 
a long  time,  unobserved  by  her  nurse,  the  sick  woman  lay 
feebly  trying  to  understand.  Suddenly  she  spoke. 

What  is  the  matter?  ” 

Mary  jumped. 

To  be  sure,”  she  said,  laying  down  her  needlework. 


986 


IRWH  LITERATURE. 


’T  is  very  bad  you  were  intirely,  ma’am,  but  thanks  be  to 
God,  sure  you  ’re  betther  now.” 

‘‘  Where  am  I ? ” asked  Mrs.  Macfarlane  after  a consid- 
erable pause. 

In  the  Station  House,  ma’am.” 

An’  who  are  you?  ” 

Sure,  don’t  ye  know  me?  I ’m  Mary  O’Brien.” 

Mary  O’Brien — O’Brien?  ” 

Yis,  faith  I Jim  O’Brien’s  wife.” 

An’  is  this  Jim  O’Brien’s  house?  ” 

Whose  else  id  it  be?  But  there  now,  don’t  talk  anny 
more.  Sure,  we  ’ll  tell  ye  all  about  it  whin  you  ’re  betther. 
The  docther  sez  you  ’re  to  be  kep’  quite.” 

But  who  brought  me  here?  ” 

Troth,  ’t  was  carried  in  ye  were,  an’  you  near  dyin’. 
Hush  up  now,  will  ye?  Take  a dhrop  o’  this,  an’  thry  to  go 
to  shleep.” 

Mrs.  Macfarlane  lay  silent,  but  she  did  not  go  to  sleep. 
She  seemed  to  be  fitting  things  together  in  her  mind  like 
pieces  of  a Chinese  puzzle,  as  she  watched  the  sunset  crim- 
son glow  and  fade  on  the  opposite  wall. 

How  long  have  I been  here?  ” she  asked  Mary  next 
morning,  when  she  awoke  refreshed  by  a good  night’s  rest. 
Goin’  on  three  weeks,  ma’am.” 

An’  was  it  you  nursed  me?  ” 

Sure  I did.” 

An’  who ’s  goin’  to  pay  you?  I ’ve  no  money.” 

^‘Not  a wan  of  me  knows,”  said  Mary,  with  a touch  of 
temper,  nor  cares  naythur.  ’T  wasn’t  for  yer  money  we 
tuk  ye  in.  Hould  up  now  a minnit  till  I change  yer  cap. 
Docther  Doherty ’s  coinin’.” 

Presently  Doctor  Doherty  bustled  in — a fresh-colored, 
cheery  little  man. 

That ’s  right,  that ’s  right,”  he  said.  Going  on  finely, 
so  you  are.  ’Pon  my  word,  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  you  have 
every  reason  to  thank  Mrs.  O’Brien  here  for  being  alive 
to-day.  It  was  touch  and  go,  I can  tell  you,  at  one  time, 
touch  and  go;  but  here  you  are  now,  doing  beautifully.” 
When  Mary  went  downstairs  to  get  some  beef-tea  Mrs, 
Macfarlane  turned  anxiouslj^  to  the  doctor. 

Doctor,”  she  said,  who ’s  supportin’  me  here?  ” 


CHARLOTTE  OVONOR  ECCLE8. 


987 


Don’t  worry  your  head  about  that  yet  awhile,”  replied 
the  doctor.  Wait  till  you  ’re  better.” 

But  I want  tu  know.  ’T  is  preyin’  on  my  mind.” 

The  O’Briens  have  taken  care  of  you  ever  since  you  fell 
ill,  and  have  let  you  want  for  nothing.  A kinder  creature 
than  that  woman  never  drew  breath.” 

But,  doctor,  I can’t  pay  them  back ; an’  if  yu  only  knew, 
this  is  the  last  house  in  the  kingdom  I ’d  like  to  be  in,  an’ 
they  are  the  last  people  I ’d  like  tu  take  charity  from.” 
Noav,  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  put  all  that 
nonsense  out  of  your  head.  Who ’s  talking  of  charity? 
Time  enough  to  think  of  this  when  you  ’re  well  and  strong.” 
It ’s  grieved  I am  inti  rely  that  ’t  was  to  them  I was 
brought.  Who  sent  me  here  at  all?  ” 

I did,”  said  the  doctor.  There  was  no  place  else  to 
send  you  to.  It  was  too  far  to  carry  you  to  your  lodgings, 
and  they  told  me  there  was  no  one  there  to  nurse  you.” 

No  more  there  was;  but  I ’d  sooner  have  died,  doctor — 
’t  is  the  truth  I ’m  tellin’  yu.  ’T  was  O’Brien  brought  me 
tu  this.” 

Oh,  I heard  of  all  that  folly,”  said  the  doctor,  and 
upon  my  word  it  seems  to  me  you  should  both  be  ashamed 
of  yourselves.  Let  it  pass.  It  is  over  and  done  with  now.” 
But,  doctor,  he  rooted  up  my  flowers.” 

^^Well,  he  says  he  didn’t;  but  sure  it  wasn’t  to  please 
him  you  planted  them.” 

He  said  it  was  the  poor  dog.” 

And  perhaps  it  was;  but  anyhow,  whatever  he  did  it 
seems  to  me  his  wife  has  made  amends,  and  you  ought  to 
live  like  decent,  peaceful  neighbors  for  the  future.” 

Where  is  my  dog?  I suppose  he  killed  it.” 

Not  he.  Your  dog  is  downstairs,  as  fat  as  a fool : I ’ll 
tell  them  to  let  it  in  here  presently.  But  now  lie  down  and 
sleep,  like  a good  creature^,  for  you  ’re  talking  far  too  much. 
Take  that  bottle  every  two  hours,  and  as  much  nourish- 
ment as  you  can  swallow,  and  you  ’ll  soon  have  no  need  for 
me.” 

By  and  by  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane  to  Mary,  The  doctor 
thinks  I ’m  doin’  nicely.” 

“ So  he  does,”  said  Mary.  Praise  be  to  God,  but  you’re 
gettin’  stronger  every  minnit.” 

I think,  Mrs.  O’Brien,  ’t  is  time  for  me  tu  be  movin’ 


988 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


back' to  my  lodgin’s.  Perhaps  I could  manage  it  to-morrow. 
I bn  sure  I ^m  greatly  obligated  to  yu  for  all  yu ’ve  done, 
but  it  ^s  a shame  to  be  beholden  to  yu  any  longer.^’ 

Is  it  movin^  you  ’re  talkin’  ov?  ” asked  Mary.  Why, 
woman  alive,  you  ’re  as  wake  as  wather.  You  won’t  be  fit 
to  shtan’  for  another  tin  days,  not  to  talk  o’  lavin’  the 
house.” 

I ’d  sooner  go,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane  obstinately. 

Now,  don’t  be  talkin’  foolishness.  You  ’ll  kill  yerself 
wid  yer  nonsinse.” 

“ An’  if  I do,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane  bitterly,  who  is  tu 
grieve?  ” 

At  this  moment  in  rushed  “ King  William  ” in  wild  ex- 
citement, leaped  on  the  bed,  licked  his  mistress’s  face, 
wagged  his  tail,  and  whined  for  sheer  joy. 

There ’s  wan  that  loves  ye  anyways,”  said  Mary  smil- 
ing; and  she  noticed  two  big  tears  start  suddenly  from 
Mrs.  Macfar lane’s  hard  eyes,  and  drop  on  the  dog’s  coat,  as 
she  bent  her  head  to  conceal  them. 

Sure,  she  has  a heart,  afther  all,”  was  Mrs.  O’Brien’s 
unspoken  comment.  Then  she  tucked  in  her  patient,  and 
left  her  lying  wearily  back  on  the  pillow,  her  thin  hand  rest- 
ing on  ‘‘  King  William’s  ” back,  as  he  snuggled  beside  her. 

Next  day,  when  she  came  upstairs,  carrying  a glass  of 
milk  with  a fresh  egg  beaten  into  it,  what  was  her  dismay 
to  find  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  a long  figure  in  her  white  night- 
gown, had  got  out  of  bed,  and  was  trying  to  make  her  way 
across  the  room  by  clinging  to  tables  and  chairs. 

God  be  good  to  uz ! what  are  ye  about?  ” cried  Mary  in 
dismay.  Why  didn’t  ye  ring  the  bell  I left  beside  ye,  if 
ye  wanted  annythin’?  I ’d  have  been  up  to  ye  before  ye 
cud  say  ^ Jack  Robinson.’  ” 

“ Thank  yu,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  I only  wanted  to 
find  my  clothes.  I ’m  a deal  better  and  stronger,  and ’t  is 
tu  bad  tu  be  lyin’  here  any  longer.” 

“ Yer  clothes,  is  it?  Why,  I hung  thim  in  the  room  be- 
yant.  Ye  won’t  be  wantin’  thim  for  another  week,  sure.” 
But  I do,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane.  I ’ll  not  stay  here 
any  longer.  I ’m  goin’  away.” 

Goin’  away,  an’  you  not  fit  to  walk ! Ah,  thin,  where 
M ye  be  goin’  to?  Now  get  back  to  your  bed  again,  alanna^ 
an’  don’t  be  foolish.” 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  ECCLES. 


989 


Mrs.  Macfarlane  would  have  resisted,  would  have  re- 
sented being  called  foolish,  but  a sudden  weakness  came 
over  her.  Before  she  knew  she  was  caught  in  Mary’s 
strong  arms,  and  half-supported,  half-carried  back  to  the 
bed  that  was  so  gratefully  warm.  There  she  lay  exhausted. 
At  last  she  found  voice. 

Yu ’ve  been  very  good  to  me,  Mrs.  O’Brien,  an’  I ’m  not 
unmindful  of  it;  but  I cannot  stay  any  longer  under  this 
roof,  and  beholden  to  your  husband.  I must  go.” 

“ Sure  ye  ’ll  go  whin  you  ’re  able.” 

I ’m  able  now.” 

’Deed  you  ’re  not,  an’  as  for  bein’  beholden,  God  knows 
we  don’t  grudge  it  to  you,  and  you  shouldn’t  grudge  takin’ 
it.” 

“ P’raps  yu  don’t,  but ’t  is  Ms  money.” 

Whisht,  now,”  said  Mary.  Sure,  Jim  isn’t  as  bad  as 
ye  make  out.  I tell  ye  what,  I ’ve  been  his  wife  this  seven- 
teen 3^ear,  an’  his  heart ’s  as  soft  as  butther.” 

I ’ve  not  found  it  so.” 

That  was  bekase  you  wint  provokin’  him ; but  me  b’leef 
is  of  both  of  yez  that  yer  bark ’s  worse  than  yer  bite,  but  I 
won’t  shtay  here  argying  anny  longer.  l"ou  ax  the  docther 
to-morrow,  an’  see  what  he  thinks.” 

When  Jim  came  in  to  supper  his  wife  said  to  him : That 

craythur  upstairs  is  mad  to  get  away.  She  thinks  we  be- 
grudge her  the  bit  she  ates.” 

Jim  was  silent.  Then  he  said:  Sure,  annythin’  that’s 

bad  she  ’ll  b’leeve  av  uz.” 

But  ye’ve  niver  been  up  to  see  her.  Shlip  into  the 
room  now  an’  ax  her  how  she ’s  goin’  on.  Let  bygones  be 
bygones  in  the  name  of  God.” 

“ I won’t,”  said  Jim. 

Oh  yes,  ye  will ! Sure  afther  all,  though  ye  didn’t  mane 
it,  you  ’re  the  cause  av  it.  Go  to  her  now.” 

‘‘  I don’t  like.” 

Ah,  go!  ’T  is  yer  place,  an’  you  sinsibler  than  she  is. 
Go  an’  tell  her  to  shtay  till  she ’s  well.  Faith  I think  that 
undher  all  that  way  of  hers  she’s  softher  than  she  looks. 
I tell  ye,  Jim,  I seen  her  cry  in’  over  the  dog,  bekase  she 
thought ’t  was  th’  only  thing  that  loved  her.” 

Half-pushed  by  Mary,  Jim  made  his  way  up  the  steep 
stair,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Mac  far  lane’s  attic. 


990 


IRISH  LITERATVRE. 


Come  in,’^  said  a feeble  voice,  and  he  stumbled  into  the 
room. 

When  Mrs.  Macfarlane  saw  who  it  was,  a flame  lit  in  her 
hollow  eyes. 

I ^m  sorry,’’  she  said  with  grim  politeness,  that  ye 
find  me  here,  Misther  O’Brien ; but  it  isn’t  my  fault.  I 
wanted  tu  go  a while  ago,  an’  your  wife  wouldn’t  let  me.” 

An’  very  right  she  was ; you  ’re  not  fit  for  it.  Sure, 
don’t  be  talkin’  av  goiu’  till  you  ’re  better,  ma’am,”  said 
Jim  awkwardly.  ‘^You’re  heartily  welcome  for  me.  I 
come  up  to  say — to  say,  I hope  ye’ll  be  in  no  hurry  to 
move.” 

Yu  ’re  very  good,  but  it ’s  not  to  be  expected  I ’d  find 
myself  easy  under  this  roof,  where  I can  assure  yu  I ’d 
never  have  come  of  my  own  free  will,  an’  I apologize  to  yu, 
Misther  O’Brien,  for  givin’  so  much  trouble — not  that  I 
could  help  myself.” 

Sure,  ’t  is  I that  should  apologize,”  blurted  out  Jim. 
An’  rale  sorry  I am — though  maybe  ye  won’t  b’leeve  me — 
that  ever  I dhruv  the  customers  out.” 

For  a long  time  Mrs.  Macfarlane  did  not  speak. 

I could  forgive  that  easier  than  your  rootin’  up  my 
lilies,”  she  said  in  a strained  voice. 

But  that  I never  did.  God  knows  an’  sees  me  this 
night  an’  He  knows  that  I niver  laid  a finger  on  thim.  I 
kem  out  an’  foun’  the  dog  there  scrattin’  at  thim,  an’  if  this 
was  me  last  dyin’  worrd,  ’t  is  thrue.” 

‘‘  An’  ’t  was  really  the  dog?  ” 

It  was,  though  I done  wrong  in  laughin’  at  him,  an’ 
cheerin’  him  on;  but  sure  ye  wouldn’t  mind  me  whin  I told 
ye  he  was  at  me  roses,  an’  I thought  it  sarved  ye  right,  an’ 
that  ye  called  him  ^ King  William  ’ to  spite  me.” 

So  I did,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane,  and  she  added  more 
gently,  I ’m  sorry  now.” 

Are  ye  so?  ” said  Jim  brightening.  Faith,  I ’m  glad 
to  hear  ye  say  it.  We  was  both  in  the  wrong,  ye  see,  an’  if 
ye  bear  no  malice,  I don’t.” 

You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  seein’  how  I misjudged 
you,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane. 

‘‘Not  a bit  av  it;  an’  ’t  was  the  wife  annyhow,  for  be- 
gorra  I was  hardened  against  ye,  so  I was.” 

“ An’  you ’ve  spent  yer  money  on  me,  an’  I — ” 


CHARLOTTE  O’CONOR  ECCLE8, 


991 


Sure  dou^t  say  a worrd  about  id.  I owed  it  to  you,  so 
I did,  but  begorra  ye  won^t  have  to  complain  av  wantin’ 
custom  wanst  you  ’re  well.” 

I hadn’t  taken  a shillin’  for  a fortnight,”  said  Mrs. 
Macfarlane  in  a low  voice. 

Jim  got  very  hot,  and  shifted  uncomfortably  from  one 
foot  to  another. 

Sure,  I was  a brute  baste,”  he  said,  “ an’  you  a woman.” 
No;  I see  now  I drew  it  on  myself.  ’T  was  I provoked 
you ; I was  set  against  you  because — because — ” 

Oh,  sure  I know  why,  an’  there ’s  too  much  of  it  in 
the  world,  God  help  uz,  espicially  in  this  misfortunit  coun- 
thry,  but  we  ’ll  live  and  let  live.  Sure  people  isn’t  half  as 
bad  as  ye  think  whin  ye  don’t  know  thim.” 

I tell  you  what,”  said  Mrs.  Macfarlane;  I won’t  call 
the  dog  ^ King  William  ’ any  more.” 

An’  why  not?”  said  Jim  in  his  repentance.  Sure  I 
don’t  mind,  as  long  as ’t  isn’t  done  to  anger  me.  ’T  is  as 
good  a name  as  another.” 

I had  no  right  ever  to  call  him  that,  an’  you  objectin’.” 
Begorra,”  said  Jim,  I ’ll  tell  ye  what:  I think  inesel’ 
King  William  was  a betther  man  any  day  than  King  James 
— to  his  own  side, — but ’t  was  the  feelin’  av  the  thing  that 
vexed  me.  An’  now  I want  to  tell  ye  not  to  be  down-sper- 
ited.  You  ’ll  soon  be  about  an’  makin’  heaps  o’  money.” 
Mrs.  Macfarlane  smiled  wanly. 

No  chance  o’  that,  I ’m  afraid.  What  with  my  illness 
an’  all  that  went  before  it,  business  is  gone.  Look  at  the 
place  shut  up  this  three  weeks  an’  more.” 

Not  it,”  said  Jim.  Sure,  sence  ye ’ve  been  sick  I put 
our  little  Kitty,  the  shlip,  in  charge  of  the  place,  an’  she ’s 
made  a power  o’  money  for  ye,  an’  she  on’y  risin’  sixteen, 
an’  havin’  to  help  her  mother  an’  all.  She ’s  a clever  girl, 
so  she  is,  though  I sez  it,  an’  she  ruz  the  prices  all  round. 
She  couldn’t  manage  with  the  cakes,  not  knowin’  how  to 
bake  thim  like  yerself ; but  sure  I bought  her  plenty  av  bis- 
cuits at  Connolly’s,  and  her  mother  cut  her  sandwidges, 
and  made  tay,  an’  the  dhrinks  was  all  there  as  you  left 
them,  an’  Kitty  kep’  count  av  all  she  sould.” 

Mrs.  Macfarlane  looked  at  him  for  a moment  queerly; 
then  she  drew  the  sheet  over  her  face  and  began  to  sob. 


992 


IRI^H  LITERATURE. 


Jim,  feeling  wretcliedly  uncomfortable,  crept  down* 
stairs. 

Go  to  the  craythur,  Mary,’’  he  said.  Sure  she  ’r 
cryin’.  We  ’ve  made  it  up, — an’  see  here,  let  her  want  fo: 
nothin’.” 

Mary  ran  upstairs,  took  grim  Mrs.  Macfarlane  in  her 
arms  and  actually  kissed  her ; and  Mrs.  Macfarlane’s  griir 
ness  melted  away,  and  the  two  women  cried  together  h 
sympathy. 

Now,  as  the  trains  come  into  Toomevara  station,  Jim 
goes  from  carriage  to  carriage  making  himself  a perfect 
nuisance  to  passengers  Avith  well-tilled  luncheon-baskets. 

Won’t  ye  haA^e  a cup  o’  tay,  me  lady?  There ’s  plinty  av 
time,  an’  sure  we ’ve  the  finest  tay  here  that  you  ’ll  get  on 
the  line.  There ’s  nothin’  like  it  this  side  o’  Dublin.  A 
glass  o’  whisky,  sir?  ’T  is  only  the  best  that’s  kep’;  or 
sherry  Avine?  Ye  won’t  be  shtoppin’  agin  an^^wheres  that 
you  ’ll  like  it  as  well.  Sure  if  ye  don’t  want  to  get  out — 
though  there ’s  plenty  o’  time — I ’ll  give  the  ordher  an’ 
haA'e  it  sent  to  yez.  Cakes,  ma’am,  for  the  little  ladies? 
’T  is  a long  journej^,  an’  maybe  they  ’ll  be  hungry — an’ 
apples?  Apples  is  mighty  good  for  childher.  She  keeps 
fine  apples,  if  }"e  like  tliim.” 

Mrs.  Macfarlane  has  groAvn  quite  fat,  is  at  peace  Avith  all 
mankind,  takes  the  deepest  interest  in  the  O’Brien  family, 
and  calls  her  dog  Billy,” 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


(1767—1849.) 

Maria  Edgeworth,  the  author  who  gave  the  first  impulse  to  the 
novel  of  national  character  and  to  the  novel  with  a moral  purpose, 
was  born  Jan.  1,  1767.  She  was  the  eldest  daughter  by  his  first 
marriage  of  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth,  who  came  of  a family  set- 
tled in  Ireland  since  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  which  had  given  its  name 
to  the  village  of  Edgeworthstown  in  County  Longford.  Shortly 
after  1773  Mr.  Edgeworth  removed  with  his  family  to  Ireland,  and 
the  mansion-house  of  Edgeworthstown  from  this  time  became  their 
home. 

Under  her  father’s  care  Maria  soon  became  an  accomplished 
scholar,  and  at  a very  early  age  was  able  to  join  him  in  various 
literary  projects.  These,  however,  were  not  given  to  the  world  at 
the  time,  and  it  was  only  in  1798  that  their  first  joint  production, 
‘ A Treatise  on  Practical  Education,’  appeared.  The  famous  ‘ Essay 
on  Irish  Bulls,’  another  joint  production,  was  published  in  1802,  and 
at  once  took  a high  place  in  the  estimation  both  of  the  critics  and 
of  the  public. 

In  1810  Miss  Edgeworth  published  ‘ Early  Lessons  ’ in  ten  parts, 
and  in  1815  her  father  added  a continuation  to  this  work.  ‘ Castle 
Rackrent,’  the  first  of  Miss  Edgeworth’s  independent  works,  ap- 
peared in  1801.  This  tale,  which  in  some  respects  is  one  of  her  best, 
proved  a great  success,  and  was  followed  for  a number  of  years  by  a 
remarkable  series,  comprising  ‘ Belinda,’  ‘ Leonora,’  ‘ Popular  Tales,’ 
‘ Tales  of  Fashionable  Life’  (containing  ‘ The  Absentee  ’) , ‘ Patron- 
age,’ ‘ Harrington,’  ‘ Ormond,’  and  others.  The  rich  humor,  pathetic 
tenderness,  and  admirable  tact  displayed  in  these  works  prompted 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  he  himself  says,  to  “ attempt  something  for  my 
own  country  of  the  same  kind  with  that  which  Miss  Edgeworth  so 
fortunately  achieved  for  Ireland.”  In  her  works  Miss  Edgeworth 
showed  very  considerable  versatility,  being  now  philosophic  with 
wisdom,  now  humorous,  now  cleverly  descriptive,  now  pathetic, 
and  always  master  of  the  immediate  subject  in  hand. 

Mr.  Edgeworth  died  in  1817,  and  this  was  a severe  blow  to  Maria. 
Of  him  she  writes:  “ Few,  I believe,  have  ever  enjoyed  such  happi- 
ness, or  such  advantages,  as  I have  had  in  the  instruction,  society, 
and  unbounded  confidence  and  affection  of  such  a father  and  such 
a friend.”  Mr.  Edgeworth  had  been  married  four  times  and  left  a 
numerous  family,  the  care  and  education  of  whom  were  ever  a grate- 
ful duty  to  his  affectionate  daughter.  In  1820  she  published  his 
‘Memoirs,’  partly  written  by  himself. 

In  1822,  ‘ Rosamond,’  a sequel  to  ‘ Early  Lessons,’  appeared,  fol- 
lowed by  ‘ Harry  and  Lucy’  and  ‘ The  Parent’s  Assistant,’ which 
contains  some  of  her  best  known  stories  for  children. 

Stories  for  children  were,  indeed,  her  earliest  work.  She  wrote 
them  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  of  her  younger  sisters  and 

993 


994 


IRWH  LITERATURE. 


brothers,  who  were  under  her  charge  in  the  frequent  absence  of  her 
father  and  stepmother. 

She  herself  tells  us  that  she  was  about  twenty-four  years  old  when 
she  began  this  work,  and  she  also  explains  that  these  tales  were 
first  of  all  written  on  a slate  ; if  they  were  approved  by  the  chil- 
dren, they  were  copied  and  added  to  the  collection.  Maria  Edge- 
worth  was  thus  enabled  to  write  from  the  child’s  point  of  view,  and 
in  simple,  direct  language  suited  to  their  comprehension.  As  com- 
pared with  the  characters  in  the  books  published  during  the  fifty 
years  preceding  their  advent,  Maria  Edgeworth’s  were  real  children, 
and  not  mere  lay  figures  named  to  represent  them,  or  pegs  upon 
which  to  hang  appropriate  moral  and  religious  sentiments.  More- 
over, they  were  generally  well-bred  and  reasonable  children,  who 
were  early  taught  patience,  self-control,  and  the  necessity  of  bear- 
ing the  consequences  of  their  follies  and  mistakes — three  important 
lessons  which  can  never  be  without  their  effects  in  after-life.  All 
of  her  stories  contain  some  very  strong  and  direct  moral  teaching, 
but  it  is  rarely  so  obtruded  as  to  rob  the  tale  of  its  living  human 
interest. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  ventured  on  more  ambitious  designs, 
but  when  she  had  fairly  won  her  place  in  literature  as  a writer  of 
novels  she  returned  to  her  early  work  in  ‘ Frank  ’ and  one  or  two 
other  tales  for  children.  Nevertheless,  her  novels,  clever  as  they 
are,  have  not  held  the  attention  of  readers  more  surely  than  her 
children’s  stories,  and  it  is  by  these  that  she  may  after  all  be  longest 
remembered. 

In  1823  Miss  Edgeworth,  with  two  of  her  sisters,  visited  Sir 
Walter  Scott  at  Abbotsford,  where  they  spent  a fortnight.  Here 
she  was  delighted  with  everything  she  heard  and  saw,  and  capti- 
vated by  the  massive  genius  of  the  “man  of  the  house.”  He  was 
equally  delighted  with  her  culture  and  the  simplicity  of  her  man- 
ners, and  the  visit  ended  in  conducing  still  more  to  their  mutual 
respect  and  esteem.  In  1834  appeared  her  popular  story  ‘ Helen.’ 
She  concluded  her  life’s  work  by  ‘ Orlandino,’  a story  for  the  young. 

In  recognition  of  her  valuable  contributions  to  the  literature  of 
her  country  she  was  elected  an  honorary  member  of  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy.  The  value  of  this  distinction  may  be  estimated  when  it 
is  known  that  but  three  ladies  besides  Miss  Edgeworth  have  been  so 
rewarded — Miss  Beaufort,  Mrs.  Somerville,  and  Miss  Stokes.  The 
later  years  of  her  long  life,  with  few  exceptions,  were  passed  at 
Edgeworthstown,  where  she  remained  “ unspoiled  by  literary  fame, 
loved  in  the  family  circle  which  daily  assembled  in  the  library,  and 
admired  by  all  as  a pattern  of  an  intellectual  and  amiable  woman.’” 
Here  too,  she  died  on  the  22d  of  May,  1849. 

Such  are  the  leading  points  in  the  literary  life  of  this  gifted  lady, 
who  was  a woman  of  remarkable  vigor  of  character.  She  refused  to 
marry  the  man  she  loved  because  she  did  not  think  it  right  to  leave 
her  friends,  her  parents,  and  her  country.  She  had  the  courage  to  be- 
gin the  study  of  the  Spanish  language  when  she  was  seventy  years 
old.  Her  rare  modesty  caused  her  to  wish  that  no  life  of  her  should 
ever  be  published,  and  she  once  declared,  “ My  only  remains  shall 
be  in  the  church  at  Edgeworthstown.”  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


905 


for  the  same  reason  no  portrait  of  her  exists;  but  we  give  the  fol- 
lowing sketch  of  her  appearance  from  the  loving  pen  of  her  friend, 
Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall:  “In  person  she  was  very  small — she  was  ‘lost  in 
a crowd’;  her  face  was  pale  and  thin,  her  features  irregular;  they 
may  have  been  considered  plain  even  in  youth ; but  her  expression 
was  so  benevolent,  her  manners  were  so  perfectly  well  bred,  par- 
taking of  English  dignity  and  Irish  frankness,  that  one  never 
thought  of  her  with  reference  to  either  beauty  or  plainness.  She 
ever  occupied  without  claiming  attention,  charming  continually  by 
her  singularly  pleasant  voice,  while  the  earnestness  and  truth  that 
beamed  from  her  bright  blue,  very  blue  eyes,  increased  the  value 
of  every  word  she  uttered.  She  knew  how  to  listen  as  well  as 
talk,  and  gathered  information  in  a manner  highly  complimentary 
to  those  from  whom  she  sought  it;  her  attention  seemed  far  more  the 
effect  of  respect  than  of  curiosity ; her  sentences  were  frequently 
epigrammatic ; she  more  than  once  suggested  to  me  the  story  of  the 
good  child  in  the  fairy  tale,  from  whose  lips  dropped  diamonds  and 
pearls  whenever  they  were  opened.  She  was  ever  neat  and  particu- 
lar in  her  dress,  a duty  to  society  which  literary  women  sometimes 
culpably  neglect  ; her  feet  and  hands  were  so  delicate  and  small  as 
to  be  almost  childlike.  In  a word,  Maria  Edgeworth  was  one  of 
those  women  who  do  not  seem  to  require  beauty.” 

The  circulation  of  Miss  Edgeworth’s  works  has  been  enormous. 
An  edition  of  the  novels  and  tales  was  published  in  eighteen  small 
volumes,  London,  1832 ; and  of  the  tales  and  miscellaneous  pieces 
in  nine  volumes,  in  1848,  and  the  more  popular  stories  are  con- 
stantly being  reprinted  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 

CASTLE  KACKRENT. 

Monday  Morning. 

Having,  out  of  friendship  for  the  family,  upon  whose 
estate,  praised  be  Heaven ! I and  mine  have  lived  rent-free 
time  out  of  mind,  voluntarily  undertaken  to  publish  the 
Memoirs  of  the  Rackrent  Family,  I think  it  my  duty  to 
say  a few  words,  in  the  first  place,  concerning  myself.  My 
real  name  is  Thady  Quirk,  though  in  the  family  I have  al- 
ways been  known  by  no  other  than  Honest  Thady,’’  after- 
ward, in  the  time  of  Sir  Murtagh,  deceased,  I remember  to 
hear  them  calling  me  Old  Thady,”  and  now  I ’ve  come  to 

Poor  Thady;”  for  I wear  a long  great-coat  winter  and 
summer,  which  is  very  handy,  as  I never  put  my  arms  into 
the  sleeves;  they  are  as  good  as  new,  though  come  Hollan- 
tide  next  I ’ve  had  it  these  seven  years ; it  holds  on  by  a 
single  button  round  my  neck,  cloak  fashion.  To  look  at 
me,  you  would  hardly  think  Poor  Thady  ” was  the 
father  of  Attorney  Quirk;  he  is  a high  gentleman,  and 


996 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


never  minds  what  poor  Thady  says,  and  having  better  than 
fifteen  hundred  a year,  landed  estate,  looks  down  upon 
honest  Thady;  but  I wash  my  hands  of  his  doings,  and  as 
I have  lived  so  will  1 die,  true  and  loyal  to  the  family.  The 
family  of  the  Eackrents  is,  I am  proud  to  say,  one  of  the 
most  ancient  in  the  kingdom.  Everybody  knows  this  is  not 
the  old  family  name,  which  was  O^Sliaughlin,  related  to  the 
kings  of  Ireland — but  that  was  before  my  time. 

My  grandfather  was  a driver  to  the  great  Sir  Patrick 
O’Shaughlin,  and  I heard  him,  when  I was  a boy,  telling- 
how  the  Castle  Rackrent  estate  came  to  Sir  Patrick;  Sir 
Tallyhoo  Rackrent  was  cousin-german  to  him,  and  had  a 
fine  estate  of  his  own,  only  never  a gate  upon  it,  it  being  his 
maxim  that  a car  was  the  best  gate.  Poor  gentleman ! he 
lost  a fine  hunter  and  his  life,  at  last,  by  it,  all  in  one  day^s 
hunt.  But  I ought  to  bless  that  day,  for  the  estate  came 
straight  into  the  family,  upon  one  condition,  which  Sir  Pat- 
rick O’Shaughlin  at  the  time  took  sadly  to-  heart,  they  say, 
but  thought  better  of  it  afterwards,  seeing  how  large  a 
stake  depended  upon  it : that  he  should,  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment, take  and  bear  the  surname  and  arms  of  Rackrent. 

Now  it  was  that  the  world  was  to  see  what  was  in  Sir 
Patrick.  On  coming  into  the  estate  he  gave  the  finest  en- 
tertainment ever  was  heard  of  in  the  country;  not  a man 
could  stand  after  supper  but  Sir  Patrick  himself,  who 
could  sit  out  the  best  man  in  Ireland,  let  alone  the  three 
kingdoms  itself.  He  had  his  house,  from  one  year’s  end 
to  another,  as  full  of  company  as  ever  it  could  hold,  and 
fuller;  for  rather  than  be  left  out  of  the  parties  at  Castle 
Rackrent,  many  gentlemen,  and  those  men  of  the  first  con- 
se(]ueuce  and  landed  estates  in  the  country — such  as  the 
O’Neills  of  Ballynagrotty,  and  the  Moneygawls  of  Mount 
Juliet’s  Town,  and  O’Shannons  of  New  Town  Tullyhog — 
made  it  their  choice,  often  and  often,  when  there  was  no 
room  to  be  had  for  love  nor  money,  in  long  winter  nights, 
to  sleep  in  the  chicken-house,  which  Sir  Patrick  had  fitted 
up  for  the  purpose  of  accommodating  his  friends  and  the 
public  in  general,  who  honored  him  with  their  company  un- 
expectedly at  Castle  Rackrent;  and  this  went  on  I can’t 
tell  you  how  long. 

The  whole  country  rang  with  his  praises ! — Long  life  to 
him ! I ’m  sure  I love  to  look  upon  his  picture,  now  op- 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


997 


posite  to  me;  though  I never  saw  him,  he  must  have  been 
a portly  gentleman — his  neck  something  short,  and  re- 
markable for  the  largest  pimple  on  his  nose,  which,  by  his 
particular  desire,  is  still  extant  in  his  picture,  said  to  be 
a striking  likeness,  though  taken  when  young.  He  is  said 
also  to  be  the  inventor  of  raspberry  whisky,  which  is  very 
likely,  as  nobody  has  ever  appeared  to  dispute  it  with  him, 
and  as  there  still  exists  a broken  punch-bowl  at  Castle 
Rackrent,  in  the  garret,  with  an  inscription  to  that  effect — 
a great  curiosity.  A few  days  before  his  death  he  was  very 
merry;  it  being  his  honoris  birthday,  he  called  my  grand- 
father in — God  bless  him ! — to  drink  the  company's  health, 
and  filled  a bumper  himself,  but  could  not  carry  it  to  his 
head,  on  account  of  the  great  shake  in  his  hand ; on  this  he 
cast  his  joke,  saying:  What  would  my  poor  father  say  to 

me  if  he  was  to  pop  out  of  the  grave,  and  see  me  now?  I 
remember  when  I was  a little  boy,  the  first  bumper  of 
claret  he  gave  me  after  dinner,  how  he  praised  me  for 
carrying  it  so  steady  to  my  mouth.  Here^s  my  thanks  to 
him — a bumper  toast.’’  Then  he  fell  to  singing  the  favorite 
song  he  learned  from  his  father — for  the  last  time,  poor 
gentleman — he  sung  it  that  night  as  loud  and  as  hearty 
as  ever,  with  a chorus : 

“ He  that  goes  to  bed,  and  goes  to  bed  sober, 

Falls  as  the  leaves  do,  falls  as  the  leaves  do,  and  dies  in  Oc* 
tober ; 

But  he  that  goes  to  bed,  and  goes  to  bed  mellow. 

Lives  as  he  ought  to  do,  lives  as  he  ought  to  do,  and  dies  an 
honest  fellow.” 

Sir  Patrick  died  that  night:  just  as  the  company  rose  to 
drink  his  health  with  three  cheers,  he  fell  down  in  a sort 
of  fit,  and  was  carried  off ; they  sat  it  out,  and.  were  sur- 
prised, on  inquiry  in  the  morning,  to  find  that  it  was  all 
over  with  poor  Sir  Patrick.  Never  did  any  gentleman  live 
and  die  more  beloved  in  the  country  by  rich  and  poor.  His 
funeral  was  such  a one  as  was  never  known  before  or  since 
in  the  county!  All  the  gentlemen  in  the  three  counties 
were  at  it;  far  and  near,  how  they  flocked ! my  great-grand- 
father said,  that  to  see  all  the  women,  even  in  their  red 
cloaks,  you  would  have  taken  them  for  the  army  drawn  out. 
Then  such  a fine  whillaluh ! you  might  have  heard  it  to  the 


998 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


farthest  end  of  the  county,  and  happy  the  man  who  could 
get  but  a sight  of  the  hearse ! 

But  who ’d  have  thought  it?  Just  as  all  was  going  on 
right,  through  his  own  town  they  were  passing,  when  the 
body  was  seized  for  debt — a rescue  was  apprehended  from 
the  mob;  but  the  heir,  who  attended  the  funeral,  was 
against  that,  for  fear  of  consequences,  seeing  that  those 
villains  who  came  to  serve  acted  under  the  disguise  of  the 
law : so,  to  be  sure,  the  law  must  take  its  course,  and  little 
gain  had  the  creditors  for  their  pains.  First  and  foremost, 
they  had  the  curses  of  the  country : and  Sir  Murtagh  Rack- 
rent,  the  new  heir,  in  the  next  place,  on  account  of  this 
affront  to  the  body,  refused  to  pay  a shilling  of  the  debts, 
in  which  he  was  countenanced  by  all  the  best  gentlemen  of 
property,  and  others  of  his  acquaintance;  Sir  Murtagh  al- 
leging in  all  companies  that  he  had  all  along  meant  to  pay 
his  fatheFs  debts  of  honor,  but  the  moment  the  law  was 
taken  of  him,  there  was  an  end  of  honor  to  be  sure.  It  was 
whispered  (but  none  but  the  enemies  of  the  family  believe 
it)  that  this  was  all  a sham  seizure  to  get  quit  of  the  debts 
which  he  had  bound  himself  to  pay  in  honor. 

It  ^s  a long  time  ago,  there ’s  no  saying  how  it  was,  but 
this  for  certain,  the  new  man  did  not  take  at  all  after  the 
old  gentleman ; the  cellars  were  never  filled  after  his  death, 
and  no  open  house,  or  anything  as  it  used  to  be:  the  ten- 
ants even  were  sent  away  without  their  whisky.  I was 
ashamed  myself,  and  knew  not  what  to  say  for  the  honor 
of  the  family;  but  I made  the  best  of  a bad  case,  and  laid  it 
all  at  my  lady’s  door,  for  I did  not  like  her  anyhow,  nor 
anybody  else;  she  was  of  the  famil}^  of  the  Skinfiints,  and  a 
Avidow;  it  Avas  a strange  match  for  Sir  MUrtagh;  the  people 
in  the  country  thought  he  demeaned  himself  greatly,  but  I 
said  nothing : I knew  hoAV  it  was.  Sir  Murtagh  Avas  a great 
laAA^er,  and  looked  to  the  great  Skinflint  estate;  there, 
lioweA^er,  he  overshot  himself;  for,  though  one  of  the  co- 
heiresses, he  Avas  never  the  better  for  her,  for  she  outlived 
him  many ’s  the  long  day — he  could  not  see  that  to  be  sure 
Avhen  he  married  her.  I must  say  for  her,  she  made  him  the 
best  of  AviA^es,  being  a A^ery  notable,  stirring  woman,  and 
looking  close  to  CA^ery thing.  But  I always  suspected  she 
had  Scotch  blood  in  her  veins;  anything  else  I could  have 
looked  over  in  her  from  a regard  to  the  family.  She  was 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


999 


a strict  observer  for  self  and  servants  of  Lent  and  all  fast 
days,  but  not  holidays.  One  of  the  maids  having  fainted 
three  times  the  last  day  of  Lent,  to  keep  soul  and  body  to- 
gether we  put  a morsel  of  roast  beef  into  her  mouth,  which 
came  from  Sir  Murtagh’s  dinner,  who  never  fasted,  not  he ; 
but  somehow  or  other  it  unfortunately  reached  my  lady’s 
ears,  and  the  priest  of  the  parish  had  a complaint  made  of 
it  the  next  day,  and  the  poor  girl  was  forced,  as  soon  as 
she  could  walk,  to  do  penance  for  it,  before  she  could  get 
any  peace  or  absolution,  in  the  house  or  out  of  it. 

However,  my  lady  was  very  charitable  in  her  own  way. 
She  had  a charity  school  for  poor  children,  where  they 
were  taught  to  read  and  write  gratis,  and  where  they  were 
kept  well  to  spinning  gratis  for  my  lady  in  return;  for  she 
had  always  heaps  of  duty  yarn  from  the  tenants,  and  got 
all  her  household  linen  out  of  the  estate  from  first  to  last ; 
for  after  the  spinning,  the  weavers  on  the  estate  took  it  in 
hand  for  nothing,  because  of  the  looms  my  lady’s  interest 
could  get  from  the  Linen  Board  to  distribute  gratis.  Then 
there  was  a bleach -yard  near  us,  and  the  tenant  dare  refuse 
my  lady  nothing,  for  fear  of  a lawsuit  Sir  Murtagh  kept 
hanging  over  him  about  the  watercourse.  With  these 
ways  of  managing,  ’t  is  surprising  how  cheap  my  lady  got 
things  done,  and  how  proud  she  was  of  it.  Her  table  the 
same  way,  kept  for  next  to  nothing;  duty  fowls,  and  duty 
turkeys,  and  duty  geese,  came  as  fast  as  we  could  eat  ’em, 
for  my  lady  kept  a sharp  lookout,  and  knew  to  a tub  of 
butter  everything  the  tenants  had,  all  round.  They  knew 
her  way,  and  what  with  fear  of  driving  for  rent  and  Sir 
Murtagh’s  lawsuits,  they  were  kept  in  such  good  order, 
they  never  thought  of  coming  near  Castle  Kackrent  with- 
out a present  of  something  or  other — nothing  too  much  or 
too  little  for  my  lady — eggs,  honey,  butter,  meal,  fish, 
game,  grouse,  and  herrings,  fresh  or  salt,  all  went  for 
something.  As  for  their  young  pigs,  we  had  them,  and  the 
best  bacon  and  hams  they  could  make  up,  with  all  young 
chickens  in  spring;  but  they  were  a set  of  poor  wretches, 
and  we  had  nothing  but  misfortunes  with  them,  always 
breaking  and  running  away.  This,  Sir  Murtagh  and  my 
lady  said,  was  all  their  former  landlord  Sir  Patrick’s  fault, 
who  let  ’em  all  get  the  half-year’s  rent  into  arrear:  there 
was  something  in  that  to  be  sure. 


1000 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


But  Sir  Murtagh  was  as  much  the  contrary  way ; for  let 
alone  making  English  tenants  of  them,  every  soul,  he  was 
always  driving  and  driving,  and  pounding  and  pounding, 
and  canting  and  canting,  and  replevying  and  replevying, 
and  he  made  a good  living  of  trespassing  cattle;  there  was 
always  some  tenant’s  pig,  or  horse,  or  cow,  or  calf,  or  goose, 
trespassing,  which  was  so  great  a gain  to  Sir  Murtagh,  that 
he  did  not  like  to  hear  me  talk  of  repairing  fences.  Then 
his  heriots  and  duty-work  brought  him  in  something,  his 
turf  was  cut,  his  potatoes  set  and  dug,  his  hay  brought 
home,  and,  in  short,  all  the  work  about  his  house  done  for 
nothing:  for  in  all  our  leases  there  were  strict  clauses 
heavy  with  penalties,  which  Sir  Murtagh  knew  well  how 
to  enforce;  so  many  days’  duty  work  of  man  and  horse, 
from  every  tenant,  he  was  to  have,  and  had,  every  3^ear; 
and  when  a man  vexed  him,  why  the  finest  day  he  could 
pitch  on,  when  the  cratur  was  getting  in  his  own  harvest, 
or  thatching  his  cabin,  Sir  Murtagh  made  it  a principle  to 
call  upon  him  and  his  horse:  so  he  taught  ’em  all,  as  he 
said,  to  know  the  law  of  landlord  and  tenant.  As  for  law, 
I believe  no  man,  dead  or  alive,  ever  loved  it  so  well  as  Sir 
Murtagh.  He  had  once  sixteen  suits  pending  at  a time, 
and  I never  saw  him  so  much  himself:  roads,  lanes,  bogs, 
wells,  ponds,  eel-wires,  orchards,  trees,  tithes,  vagrants, 
gravel-pits,  sandpits,  dunghills,  and  nuisances,  everything 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  furnished  him  good  matter  for  a 
suit.  He  used  to  boast  that  he  had  a lawsuit  for  every 
letter  in  the  alphabet.  How  I used  to  wonder  to  see  Sir 
Murtagh  in  the  midst  of  the  papers  in  his  office ! Why,  he 
could  hardly  turn  about  for  them.  I made  bold  to  shrug 
my  shoulders  once  in  his  presence,  and  thanked  my  stars  I 
was  not  born  a gentleman  to  so  much  toil  and  trouble, 
but  Sir  Murtagh  took  me  up  short  with  his  old  proverb, 
‘‘  Learning  is  better  than  house  or  land.” 

Out  of  forty-nine  suits  which  he  had,  he  never  lost  one 
but  seventeen ; the  rest  he  gained  with  costs,  double  costs, 
treble  costs  sometimes;  but  even  that  did  not  pay.  He  was 
a very  learned  man  in  the  law,  and  had  the  character  of  it ; 
but  how  it  was  I can’t  tell,  these  suits  that  he  carried  cost 
him  a power  of  money:  in  the  end  he  sold  some  hundreds 
a year  of  the  family  estate;  but  he  was  a very  learned  man 
in  the  law,  and  I know  nothing  of  the  matter,  except  hav- 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1001 


ing  a great  regard  for  the  family;  and  I could  not  help 
grieving  when  he  sent  me  to  post  up  notices  of  the  sale  of 
the  fee  simple  of  the  lands  and  appurtenances  of  Timo- 
league. 

“ I know,  honest  Thady,’^  says  he,  to  comfort  me,  what 
I ’m  about  better  than  you  do;  I hn  only  selling  to  get  the 
ready  money  wanting  to  carry  on  my  suit  with  spirit  with 
the  Nugents  of  Carrickashaughlin.’’ 

He  was  very  sanguine  about  that  suit  with  the  Nugents 
of  Carrickashaughlin.  He  could  have  gained  it,  they  say, 
for  certain,  had  it  pleased  Heaven  to  have  spared  him  to 
us,  and  it  would  have  been  at  the  least  a plump  two  thou- 
sand a year  in  his  way;  but  things  were  ordered  otherwise 
— for  the  best  to  be  sure.  He  dug  up  a fairy-mount  against 
my  advice,  and  had  no  luck  afterwards.  Though  a learned 
man  in  the  law,  he  was  a little  too  incredulous  in  other 
matters.  I warned  him  that  I heard  the  very  Banshee  that 
my  grandfather  heard  under  Sir  Patrick’s  window  a few 
days  before  his  death.  But  Sir  Murtagh  thought  nothing 
of  the  Banshee,  nor  of  his  cough,  with  a spitting  of  blood, 
brought  on,  I understand,  by  catching  cold  in  attending 
the  courts,  and  overstraining  his  chest  with  making  him- 
self heard  in  one  of  his  favorite  causes.  He  was  a great 
speaker,  with  a powerful  voice ; but  his  last  speech  was  not 
in  the  courts  at  all.  He  and  my  lady,  though  both  of  the 
same  way  of  thinking  in  some  things,  and  though  she  was 
as  good  a wife  and  great  economist  as  3-011  could  see,  and  he 
the  best  of  husbands,  as  to  looking  into  his  affairs,  and 
making  money  for  his  family ; yet  I don’t  know  how  it  was, 
they  had  a great  deal  of  sparring  and  jarring  between 
them. 

My  lady  had  her  privy  purse;  and  she  had  her  weed 
ashes,  and  her  sealing  money  upon  the  signing  of  all  the 
leases,  with  something  to  buy  gloves  besides ; and,  besides, 
again  often  took  mone3^  from  the  tenants,  if  offered  prop- 
erly, to  speak  for  them  to  Sir  iMurtagh  about  abatements 
and  renewals.  Now  the  weed  ashes  and  the  glove  money 
he  allowed  her  clear  perquisites;  though  once  when  he  saw 
her  in  a new  gown  saved  out  of  the  weed  ashes,  he  told  her 
to  my  face  (for  he  could  say  a sharp  thing)  that  she  should 
not  put  on  her  weeds  before  her  husband’s  death.  But  in  a 
dispute  about  an  abatement  my  lady  would  ha.e  the  last 

10— Irish  1-it.  Voi.  3 ‘ 


1002 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


word,  and  Sir  Murtagli  grew  mad ; I was  within  hearing  of 
the  door,  and  now  I wish  I had  made  bold  to  step  in.  He 
spoke  so  loud,  the  whole  kitchen  was  out  on  the  stairs.  All 
on  a sudden  he  stopped,  and  my  lady  too.  Something  has 
surely  happened,  thought  I ; and  so  it  was,  for  Sir  Murtagh 
in  his  passion  broke  a blood-vessel,  and  all  the  law  in  the 
land  could  do  nothing  in  that  case.  My  lady  sent  for  five 
phj^sicians,  but  Sir  Murtagh  died  and  was  buried.  She  had 
a fine  jointure  settled  upon  her,  and  took  herself  away,  to 
the  great  joy  of  the  tenantry.  I never  said  anything  one 
way  or  the  other,  whilst  she  was  part  of  the  family,  but 
got  up  to  see  her  go  at  three  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

It’s  a fine  morning,  honest  Thady,”  says  she;  ‘‘good- 
bye to  ye.”  And  into  the  carriage  she  stepped,  without  a 
Avord  more,  good  or  bad,  or  even  half-a-crown ; but  I made 
my  boAv,  and  stood  to  see  her  safe  out  of  sight  for  the  sake 
of  the  family. 

Then  we  were  all  bustle  in  the  house,  which  made  me 
keep  out  of  the  way,  for  I walk  slow  and  hate  a bustle ; but 
the  house  was  all  hurry-skurry,  preparing  for  my  new  mas- 
ter. Sir  Murtagh,  I forgot  to  notice,  had  no  childer;  so 
the  Rackrent  estate  went  to  his  younger  brother,  a young 
dashing  officer,  who  came  amongst  us  before  I knew  for  the 
life  of  me  whereabouts  I was,  in  a gig  or  some  of  them 
things,  with  another  spark  along  with  him,  and  led  horses, 
and  servants,  and  dogs,  and  scarce  a place  to  put  any 
Christian  of  them  into;  for  my  late  lady  had  sent  all  the 
feather-beds  off  before  her,  and  blankets  and  household 
linen,  down  to  the  very  knife-cloths,  on  the  cars  to  Dublin, 
which  were  all  her  own,  lawfully  paid  for  out  of  her  own 
money.  So  the  house  was  quite  bare,  and  my  young  mas- 
ter, the  moment  ever  he  set  foot  in  it  out  of  his  gig,  thought 
all  those  things  must  come  of  themseh^es,  I believe,  for  he 
never  looked  after  anything  at  all,  but  harum-scarum 
called  for  everything  as  if  we  were  conjurers,  or  he  in  a 
public-house.  For  my  part,  I could  not  bestir  myself  auy- 
hoAv;  I had  been  so  much  used  to  my  late  master  and  mis- 
tress, all  was  upside  down  with  me,  and  the  new  servants 
in  the  servants’  hall  were  quite  out  of  my  way;  I had  no- 
body to  talk  to,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  pipe  and 
tobacco,  should,  I verily  believe,  have  broke  my  heart  for 
poor  Sir  Murtagh. 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1003 


But  one  morning  my  new  master  caught  a glimpse  of  me 
as  I was  looking  at  his  horse’s  heels,  in  hopes  of  a word 
from  him.  ‘‘And  is  that  old  Thady?  ” says  he,  as  he  got 
into  his  gig;  I loved  him  from  that  day  to  this,  his  voice 
was  so  like  the  family ; and  he  threw  me  a guinea  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  as  he  drew  up  the  reins  with  the  other 
hand,  his  horse  rearing  too ; I thought  I never  set  my  eyes 
on  a finer  figure  of  a man,  quite  another  sort  from  Sir 
Murtagh,  though  withal,  to  me,  a family  likeness.  A fine 
life  we  should  have  led,  had  he  stayed  amongst  us,  God 
bless  him ! He  valued  a guinea  as  little  as  any  man ; money 
to  him  was  no  more  than  dirt,  and  his  gentleman  and 
groom,  and  all  belonging  to  him,  the  same;  but  the  sport- 
ing season  over,  he  grew  tired  of  the  place,  and  having  got 
down  a great  architect  for  the  house,  and  an  improver  for 
the  grounds,  and  seen  their  plans  and  elevations,  he  fixed 
a day  for  settling  with  the  tenants,  but  went  off  in  a 
whirlwind  to  town,  just  as  some  of  them  came  into  the 
yard  in  the  morning. 

A circular-letter  came  next  post  from  the  new  agent, 
with  news  that  the  master  was  sailed  for  England,  and  he 
must  remit  £500  to  Bath  for  his  use  before  a fortnight  was 
at  an  end;  bad  news  still  for  the  poor  tenants,  no  change 
still  for  the  better  with  them.  Sir  Kit  Rackrent,  my  young 
master,  left  all  to  the  agent ; and  though  he  had  the  spirit 
of  a prince,  and  lived  away  to  the  honor  of  his  country 
abroad,  which  I was  proud  to  hear  of,  what  were  we  the 
better  for  that  at  home?  The  agent  was  one  of  your  mid- 
dlemen, who  grind  the  face  of  the  poor,  and  can  never  bear 
a man  with  a hat  upon  his  head ; he  ferreted  the  tenants  out 
of  their  lives ; not  a week  without  a call  for  money,  drafts 
upon  drafts  from  Sir  Kit;  but  I laid  it  all  to  the  fault  of 
the  agent,  for,  says  I,  what  can  Sir  Kit  do  with  so  much 
cash,  and  he  a single  man?  But  still  it  went.  Rents  must 
be  all  paid  up  to  the  day,  and  afore;  no  allowance  for  im- 
proving tenants,  no  consideration  for  those  who  had  built 
upon  their  farms;  no  sooner  was  a lease  out  but  the  laud 
was  advertised  to  the  highest  bidder;  all  the  old  tenants 
turned  out,  when  they  spent  their  substance  in  the  hope 
and  trust  of  a renewal  from  the  landlord.  All  was  now 
let  at  the  highest  penny  to  a parcel  of  poor  wretches,  who 
meant  to  run  away,  and  did  so  after  taking  two  crops  out 


1004 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


of  the  ground.  Then  fining  down  the  year’s  rent  came  into 
fashion — anything  for  the  ready  penny;  and  with  all  this 
and  presents  to  the  agent  and  the  driver,  there  was  no  sucli 
thing  as  standing  it.  I said  nothing,  for  I had  a regard  for 
the  family,  but  I walked  about  thinking  if  his  honor  Sir 
Kit  knew  all  this,  it  would  go  hard  with  him  but  he ’d  see 
us  righted;  not  that  I had  anything  for  my  own  share  to 
complain  of,  for  the  agent  was  always  very  civil  to  me 
when  he  came  down  into  the  country,  and  took  a great  deal 
of  notice  of  my  son  Jason. 

Jason  Quirk,  though  he  be  my  son,  I must  say  was  a good 
scholar  from  his  birth,  and  a very  ’cute  lad;  I thought  to 
make  him  a priest,  but  he  did  better  for  himself;  seeing  how 
he  was  as  good  a clerk  as  any  in  the  country,  the  agent  gave 
him  his  rent  accounts  to  copy,  which  he  did  first  of  all  for 
the  pleasure  of  obliging  the  gentleman,  and  would  take 
nothing  at  all  for  his  trouble,  but  was  always  proud  to 
serve  the  family.  By  and  by  a good  farm  bounding  us  to 
the  east  fell  into  his  honor’s  hands,  and  my  son  put  in  a 
proposal  for  it;  why  shouldn’t  he,  as  well  as  another?  The 
proposals  all  went  Over  to  the  master  at  Bath,  who 
knowing  no  more  of  the  land  than  the  child  unborn,  only 
having  once  been  out  a-grousing  on  it  before  he  went  to 
England;  and  the  value  of  lands,  as  the  agent  informed 
him,  falling  every  year  in  Ireland,  his  honor  wrote  over  in 
all  haste  a bit  of  a letter,  saying  he  left  it  all  to  the  agent, 
and  that  he  must  let  it  as  well  as  he  could — to  the  best 
bidder,  to  be  sure — and  send  him  over  £200  by  return  of 
post;  with  this  the  agent  gave  me  a hint,  and  I spoke  a 
good  word  for  my  son,  and  gave  out  in  the  country  that 
nobody  need  bid  against  us.  So  his  proposal  was  just  the 
thing,  and  he  a good  tenant,  and  he  got  a promise  of  an 
abatement  in  the  rent  after  the  first  year,  for  advancing 
the  half-year’s  rent  at  signing  the  lease,  which  was  wanting 
to  complete  the  agent’s  £200  by  the  return  of  the  post,  with 
all  which  my  master  wrote  back  he  was  well  satisfied. 

About  this  time  we  learnt  from  the  agent,  as  a great 
secret,  how  the  money  went  so  fast,  and  the  reason  of  the 
thick  coming  of  the  master’s  drafts : he  was  a little  too  fond 
of  play,  and  Bath,  they  say,  was  no  place  for  a young  man 
of  his  fortune,  where  there  were  so  many  of  his  own  coun- 
trymen, too,  hunting  him  up  and  down  day  and  night,  who 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1005 


had  nothing  to  lose.  At  last,  at  Christmas,  the  agent  wrote 
over  to  stop  the  drafts,  for  he  could  raise  no  more  money  on 
bond  or  mortgage,  or  from  the  tenants,  or  anyhow,  nor  had 
he  any  more  to  lend  himself,  and  desired  at  the  same  time 
to  decline  the  agency  for  the  future,  wishing  Sir  Kit  his 
health  and  happiness,  and  the  compliments  of  the  season, 
for  I saw  the  letter  before  ever  it  was  sealed,  when  my  son 
copied  it.  When  the  answer  came  there  was  a new  turn 
in  affairs,  and  the  agent  was  turned  out,  and  my  son  Jason, 
who  had  corresponded  privately  with  his  honor  occasion- 
ally on  business,  was  forthwith  desired  by  his  honor  to  take 
the  accounts  into  his  own  hands,  and  look  them  over,  till 
further  orders.  It  was  a very  spirited  letter  to  be  sure ; Sir 
Kit  sent  his  service,  and  the  compliments  of  the  season,  in 
return  to  the  agent,  and  he  would  fight  him  with  pleasure 
to-morrow,  or  any  day,  for  sending  him  such  a letter,  if  he 
was  born  a gentleman,  which  he  was  sorry  (for  both  their 
sakes)  to  find  (too  late)  he  was  not.  Then,  in  a private 
postscript,  he  condescended  to  tell  us  that  all  would  be 
speedily  settled  to  his  satisfaction,  and  we  should  turn 
over  a new  leaf,  for  he  was  going  to  be  married  in  a fort- 
night to  the  grandest  heiress  in  England,  and  had  only 
immediate  occasion  at  present  for  £200,  as  he  would  not 
choose  to  touch  his  lady’s  fortune  for  traveling  expenses 
home  to  Castle  Kackrent,  where  he  intended  to  be,  wind 
and  weather  permitting,  early  in  the  next  month;  and  de- 
sired fires,  and  the  house  to  be  painted,  and  the  new  build- 
ing to  go  on  as  fast  as  possible,  for  the  reception  of  him 
and  his  lady  before  that  time;  with  several  words  besides 
in  the  letter,  which  we  could  not  make  out,  because,  God 
bless  him ! he  wrote  in  such  a fiurry. 

My  heart  warmed  to  my  new  lady  when  I read  this:  I 
was  almost  afraid  it  was  too  good  news  to  be  true;  but  the 
girls  fell  to  scouring,  and  it  was  well  they  did,  for  we  soon 
saw  his  marriage  in  the  paper,  to  a lady  with  I don't  know 
liow  many  tens  of  thousands  pounds  to  her  fortune;  then 
I watched  the  post-office  for  his  landing;  and  the  news 
came  to  my  son  of  his  and  the  bride  being  in  Dublin,  and 
on  their  way  home  to  Castle  Rackrent.  We  had  bonfires 
all  over  the  country,  expecting  him  down  the  next  day,  and 
we  had  his  coming  of  age  still  to  celebrate,  which  he  had 
not  time  to  do  properly  before  he  left  the  country;  there^ 


1006 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


fore,  a great  ball  was  expected,  and  great  doings  upon  his 
coining,  as  it  were,  fresh  to  take  possession  of  his  ancestors’ 
estate.  I never  shall  forget  the  day  he  came  home ; we  had 
waited  and  waited  all  day  long  till  eleven  o’clock  at  night, 
and  I was  thinking  of  sending  the  boy  to  lock  the  gates,  ancl 
giving  them  up  for  that  night,  when  there  came  the  car- 
riages thundering  up  to  the  great  hall-door.  I got  the 
first  sight  of  the  bride;  for  when  the  carriage  door  opened, 
just  as  she  had  her  foot  on  the  steps,  I held  the  flame  full 
in  her  face  to  light  her,  at  which  she  shut  her  eyes,  but  I 
had  a full  view  of  the  rest  of  her,  and  greatly  shocked  I 
was,  for  by  that  light  she  was  little  better  than  a blacka- 
moor, and  seemed  crippled;  but  that  was  only  sitting  so 
long  in  the  chariot. 

You  ’re  kindly  welcome  to  Castle  Rackrent,  my  lady,” 
says  I (recollecting  who  she  was).  Did  your  honor  hear 
of  the  bonfires?  ” 

His  honor  spoke  never  a word,  nor  so  much  as  handed 
her  up  the  steps — he  looked  to  me  no  more  like  himself 
than  nothing  at  all ; I know  I took  him  for  the  skeleton  of 
his  honor.  I was  not  sure  what  to  say  to  one  or  t’  other, 
but  seeing  she  was  a stranger  in  a foreign  country,  I 
thought  it  but  right  to  speak  cheerful  to  her;  so  I went 
back  again  to  the  bonfires. 

My  lady,”  says  I,  as  she  crossed  the  hall,  “ there  would 
have  been  fifty  times  as  many;  but  for  fear  of  the  horses, 
and  frightening  your  ladyship,  Jason  and  I forbid  them, 
please  your  honor.” 

Will  I have  a fire  lighted  in  the  state-room  to-night?  ” 
Avas  the  next  question  I put  to  her,  but  never  a word  she 
answered;  so  I concluded  she  could  not  speak  a word  of 
English,  and  was  from  foreign  parts.  The  short  and  the 
long  of  it  was,  I couldn’t  tell  what  to  make  of  her;  so  I left 
her  to  herself,  and  went  straight  down  to  the  serA^ants’  hall 
to  learn  something  for  certain  about  her.  Sir  Kit’s  OAvn 
man  was  tired,  but  the  grooms  set  him  a-talking  at  last, 
and  we  had  it  all  out  before  ever  I closed  my  eyes  that 
night.  The  bride  might  well  be  a great  fortune — she  AA^as 
a Jeivish  by  all  accounts,  who  are  famous  for  their  great 
riches.  I had  never  seen  any  of  that  tribe  or  nation  before, 
and  could  only  gather  that  she  spoke  a strange  kind  of 
English  of  her  OAvn,  that  she  could  not  abide  pork  or  sau- 


MARIA  EDGE^yORTH, 


1007 


sages,  and  went  neither  to  church  nor  mass.  Mercy  upon 
his  honor’s  poor  soul,  thought  I ; what  will  become  of  him 
and  his,  and  all  of  us,  with  his  heretic  blackamoor  at  the 
head  of  the  Castle  Rackrent  estate?  I never  slept  a wink 
all  night  for  thinking  of  it;  but  before  the  servants  I put 
my  pipe  in  my  mouth,  and  kept  my  mind  to  myself,  for  I 
had  a great  regard  for  the  family;  and  after  this,  when 
strange  gentlemen’s  servants  came  to  the  house,  and  would 
begin  to  talk  about  the  bride,  I took  care  to  put  the  best 
foot  foremost,  and  passed  her  for  a nabob  in  the  kitchen, 
which  accounted  for  her  dark  complexion  and  everything. 

The  very  morning  after  they  came  home,  however,  I saw 
plain  enough  how  things  were  between  Sir  Kit  and  my  lady, 
though  they  were  walking  together  arm  in  arm  after  break- 
fast, looking  at  the  new  building  and  the  improvements. 

Old  Thady,”  said  my  master,  just  as  he  used  to  do, 
how  do  you  do?  ” 

Very  well,  I thank  your  honor’s  honor,”  said  I ; but  I 
saw  he  was  not  well  pleased,  and  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth 
as  I walked  along  after  him. 

Is  the  large  room  damp,  Thady?  ” said  his  honor. 

Oh,  damp,  your  honor ! how  should  it  be  but  as  dry  as 
a bone,”  says  I,  after  all  the  fires  we  have  kept  in  it  day 
and  night?  It’s  the  barrack-room  your  honor’s  talking 
on.” 

And  what  is  a barrack-room,  pray,  my  dear?  ” were  the 
first  words  I ever  heard  out  of  my  lady’s  lips. 

No  matter,  my  dear,”  said  he,  and  went  on  talking  to 
me,  ashamed-like  I should  witness  her  ignorance.  To  be 
sure,  to  hear  her  talk  one  might  have  taken  her  for  an  in- 
nocent, for  it  was,  What ’s  this.  Sir  Kit?  ” and  What ’s 
that.  Sir  Kit?”  all  the  way  we  went.  To  be  sure.  Sir 
Kit  had  enough  to  do  to  answer  her. 

And  what  do  you  call  that.  Sir  Kit?  ” said  she;  that — 
that  looks  like  a pile  of  black  bricks,  pray.  Sir  Kit?” 

“ My  turf-stack,  my  dear,”  said  my  master,  and  bit  his 
lip. 

Where  have  you  lived,  my  lady,  all  your  life,  not  to  know 
a turf-stack  when  you  see  it?  thought  I ; but  I said  nothing. 
Then,  by-and-by,  she  takes  out  her  glass,  and  begins  spying 
over  the  country. 


1008 


IRISH  LIITERATURE. 


And  what  all  that  black  swamp  out  yonder,  Sir 
Kit?  ’’  says  she. 

My  bog,  my  dear,^^  says  he,  and  went  on  whistling. 

It ’s  a very  ugly  prospect,  my  dear,^^  says  she. 

You  don’t  see  it,  my  dear,”  says  he;  for  we ’ve  planted 
it  out;  when  the  trees  grow  up  in  summer-time — ” says  he. 

Where  are  the  trees,”  said  she,  “ my  dear?  ” still  look- 
ing through  her  glass. 

You  are  blind,  my  dear,”  says  he : “ what  are  these 
under  your  eyes?  ” 

These  shrubs?  ” said  she. 

Trees,”  said  he. 

Maybe  they  are  what  you  call  trees  in  Ireland,  my 
dear,”  said  she;  but  they  are  not  a yard  high,  are  they?  ” 

They  were  planted  out  but  last  year,  my  lady,”  sa^^s  I, 
to  soften  matters  between  them,  for  I saw  she  was  going  the 
way  to  make  his  honor  mad  with  her : they  are  very  well 

grown  for  their  age,  and  you  ’ll  not  see  the  bog  of  Allybally- 
carricko’shaughlin  at-all-at-all  through  the  skreen,  when 
once  the  leaves  come  out.  But,  my  lady,  you  must  not 
quarrel  with  any  part  or  parcel  of  Allyballycarricko’- 
shaughlin,  for  you  don’t  know  how  many  hundred  years 
that  same  bit  of  bog  has  been  in  the  family;  we  would  not 
part  with  the  bog  of  Allyballycarricko’shaughlin  upon  no 
account  at  all;  it  cost  the  late  Sir  Murtagh  two  hundred 
good  pounds  to  defend  his  title  to  it  and  boundaries  against 
the  O’Learys,  who  cut  a road  through  it.” 

Now  one  would  have  thought  this  would  have  been  hint 
enough  for  my  lady,  but  she  fell  to  laughing  like  one  out  of 
their  right  mind,  and  made  me  say  the  name  of  the  bog  over, 
for  her  to  get  it  by  heart,  a dozen  times;  then  she  must  ask 
me  how  to  spell  it,  and  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  in 
English — Sir  Kit  standing  by  whistling  all  the  while.  I 
verily  believed  she  laid  the  corner-stone  of  all  her  future 
misfortunes  at  that  very  instant;  but  I said  no  more,  only 
looked  at  Sir  Kit. 

There  were  no  balls,  no  dinners,  no  doings;  the  country 
was  all  disappointed — Sir  Kit’s  gentleman  said  in  a whis- 
per to  me,  it  was  all  my  lady’s  own  fault,  because  she  was 
so  obstinate  about  the  cross. 

What  cross?”  says  I;  ‘Ms  it  about  her  being  a her- 
etic? ” 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1009 


Oh,  no  such  matter,’’  says  he ; my  master  does  not 
mind  her  heresies,  but  her  diamond  cross — it ’s  worth  I 
can’t  tell  you  how  much,  and  she  has  thousands  of  English 
pounds  concealed  in  diamonds  about  her,  which  she  as  good 
as  promised  to  give  up  to  my  master  before  he  married; 
but  now  she  won’t  part  with  any  of  them,  and  she  must 
take  the  consequences.” 

Her  honeymoon,  at  least  her  Irish  honeymoon,  was 
scarcely  well  over,  when  his  honor  one  morning  said  to  me, 
Thady,  buy  me  a pig ! ” and  then  the  sausages  were  or- 
dered, and  here  was  the  first  open  breaking-out  of  my  lady’s 
troubles.  My  lady  came  down  herself  into  the  kitchen  to 
speak  to  the  cook  about  the  sausages,  and  desired  never  to 
see  them  more  at  her  table.  Now  my  master  had  ordered 
them,  and  m^^  lady  knew  that.  The  cook  took  my  lady’s 
part,  because  she  never  came  down  into  the  kitchen,  and 
Avas  young  and  innocent  in  housekeeping,  which  raised  her 
pity;  besides,  said  she,  at  her  own  table,  surely  my  lady 
should  order  and  disorder  what  she  pleases.  But  the  cook 
soon  changed  her  note,  for  my  master  made  it  a principle 
to  have  the  sausages,  and  swore  at  her  for  a Jew  herself, 
till  he  drove  her  fairly  out  of  the  kitchen;  then,  for  fear 
of  her  place,  and  because  he  threatened  that  my  lady  should 
give  her  no  discharge  without  the  sausages,  she  gave  up, 
and  from  that  day  forAvard  always  sausages,  or  bacon,  or 
pig-meat  in  some  shape  or  other,  Avent  up  to  table;  upon 
Avhich  my  lady  shut  herself  up  in  her  OAvn  room,  and  my 
master  said  she  might  stay  there,  Avith  an  oath ; and  to 
make  sure  of  her,  he  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  and  kept 
it  eA^er  after  in  his  pocket.  We  none  of  us  ever  saw  or 
heard  her  speak  for  seven  years  after  that : he  carried  her 
dinner  himself.  Then  his  honor  had  a great  deal  of  com- 
pany to  dine  Avith  him,  and  balls  in  the  house,  and  was  as 
gay  and  gallant,  and  as  much  himself  as  before  he  AA^as 
married;  and  at  dinner  he  always  drank  my  Lady  Rack- 
rent’s  good  liealth  and  so  did  the  company,  and  he  sent  out 
always  a servant  Avith  his  compliments  to  my  Lady  Rack- 
rent,  and  the  company  Avas  drinking  her  ladyship’s  health, 
and  begged  to  know  if  there  was  anything  at  table  he  might 
send  her,  and  the  man  came  back,  after  the  sham  errand, 
with  my  Lady  Rackrent’s  compliments,  and  she  Avas  very 


1010 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


much  obliged  to  Sir  Kit — she  did  not  ^yish  for  anything, 
but  drank  the  company’s  health. 

The  country,  to  be  sure,  talked  and  wondered  at  my 
lady^s  being  shut  up,  but  nobody  chose  to  interfere  or  ask 
any  impertinent  questions,  for  they  knew  my  master  was 
a man  very  apt  to  give  a short  answer  himself,  and  likely 
to  call  a man  out  for  it  afterwards : he  was  a famous  shot, 
had  killed  his  man  before  he  came  of  age,  and  nobody 
scarce  dared  look  at  him  whilst  at  Bath.  Sir  Kit’s  char- 
acter was  so  well  known  in  the  country  that  he  lived  in 
peace  and  quietness  ever  after,  and  Avas  a great  favorite 
with  the  ladies,  especially  when  in  process  of  time,  in  the 
fifth  year  of  her  confinement,  my  Lady  Rackrent  fell  ill  and 
took  entirely  to  her  bed,  and  he  gave  out  she  was  now  skin 
and  bone,  and  could  not  last  through  the  winter.  In  this 
he  had  two  physicians’  opinions  to  back  him  (for  now  he 
called  in  two  ph^^sicians  for  her),  and  tried  all  his  arts  to 
get  the  diamond  cross  from  her  on  her  deathbed,  and  to  get 
her  to  make  a will  in  his  favor  of  her  separate  possessions, 
but  there  she  was  too  tough  for  him.  He  used  to  swear  at 
her  behind  her  back  after  kneeling  to  her  face,  and  call  her 
in  the  presence  of  his  gentleman  his  stiff-necked  Israelite, 
though  before  he  married  her  that  same  gentleman  told  me 
he  used  to  call  her  (how  he  Avould  bring  it  out,  I don’t 
know)  my  pretty  Jessica  I ” To  be  sure  it  must  have  been 
hard  for  her  to  guess  what  sort  of  a husband  he  reckoned 
to  make  her. 

When  she  was  lying,  to  all  expectation,  on  her  deathbed 
of  a broken  heart,  I could  not  but  pity  her,  though  she  was 
a Jewish,  and  considering  too  it  was  no  fault  of  hers  to  be 
taken  with  my  master,  so  young  as  she  was  at  the  Bath, 
and  so  fine  a gentleman  as  Sir  Kit  was  when  he  courted 
her^  and  considering  too,  after  all  they  had  heard  and  seen 
of  him  as  a husband,  there  were  now  no  less  than  three 
ladies  in  our  county  talked  of  for  his  second  wife,  all  at 
daggers  drawn  Avith  each  other,  as  his  gentleman  swore, 
at  the  balls,  for  Sir  Kit  for  their  partner — I could  not  but 
think  them  beAvitched,  but  they  all  reasoned  with  them- 
selA^es  that  Sir  Kit  would  make  a good  husband  to  any 
Christian  but  a JeAvish,  I suppose,  and  especially  as  he 
Avas  noAv  a reformed  rake;  and  it  was  not  knoAvn  hoAV  my 
lady’s  fortune  Avas  settled  in  her  will,  nor  how  the  Castle 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1011 


Rackrent  estate  was  all  mortgaged,  and  bonds  out  against 
him,  for  he  was  never  cured  of  his  gaming  tricks;  but  that 
was  the  only  fault  he  had,  God  bless  him  I 

My  lady  had  a sort  of  fit,  and  it  was  given  out  that  she 
was  dead,  by  mistake;  this  brought  things  to  a sad  crisis 
for  my  poor  master.  One  of  the  three  ladies  showed  his 
letters  to  her  brother,  and  claimed  his  promises,  whilst 
another  did  the  same.  I don’t  mention  names.  Sir  Kit,  in 
his  defense,  said  he  would  meet  any  man  who  dared  to 
question  his  conduct;  and  as  to  the  ladies,  they  must  settle 
it  amongst  them  who  was  to  be  his  second,  and  his  third, 
and  his  fourth,  whilst  his  first  was  still  alive,  to  his  morti- 
fication and  theirs.  Upon  this,  as  upon  all  former  occa- 
sions, he  had  the  voice  of  the  country  with  him,  on  account 
of  the  great  spirit  and  propriety  he  acted  with.  He  met 
and  shot  the  first  lady’s  brother;  the  next  day  he  called 
out  the  second,  who  had  a wooden  leg,  and  their  place  of 
meeting  by  appointment  being  in  a new-ploughed  field,  the 
wooden-leg  man  stuck  fast  in  it.  Sir  Kit,  seeing  his  situa- 
tion, with  great  candor  fired  his  pistol  over  his  head ; upon 
which  the  seconds  interposed,  and  convinced  the  parties 
there  had  been  a slight  misunderstanding  between  them; 
thereupon  they  shook  hands  cordially,  and  went  home  to 
dinner  together.  This  gentleman,  to  show  the  world  how 
they  stood  together,  and  by  the  advice  of  the  friends  of  both 
parties,  to  re-establish  his  sister’s  injured  reputation,  went 
out  with  Sir  Kit  as  his  second,  and  carried  his  message 
next  day  to  the  last  of  his  adversaries. 

I never  saw  him  in  such  fine  spirits  as  that  day  he  went 
out — sure  enough  he  was  within  an  ace  of  getting  quit 
handsomely  of  all  his  enemies;  but  unluckily,  after  hitting 
the  tooth-pick  out  of  his  adversary’s  finger  and  thumb,  he 
received  a ball  in  a vital  part,  and  was  brought  home,  in 
little  better  than  an  hour  after  the  affair,  speechless  on  a 
hand-barrow  to  my  lady.  We  got  the  key  out  of  his  pocket 
the  first  thing  we  did,  and  my  son  Jason  ran  to  unlock  the 
barrack-room,  where  my  lady  had  been  shut  up  for  seven 
years,  to  acquaint  her  with  the  fatal  accident.  The  sur- 
prise bereaved  her  of  her  senses  at  first,  nor  would  she  be- 
lieve but  we  were  putting  some  new  trick  upon  her,  to 
entrap  her  out  of  her  jewels,  for  a great  while,  till  Jason 
bethought  himself  of  taking  her  to  the  window,  and  showed 


1012 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


her  the  men  bringing*  Sir  Kit  up  the  avenue  upon  the  hand- 
barrow,  which  had  immediately  the  desired  effect;  for  di- 
rectly she  burst  into  tears,  and  pulling  her  cross  from  her 
bosom,  she  kissed  it  with  as  great  devotion  as  ever  I wit- 
nessed, and  lifting  up  her  eyes  to  heaven  uttered  some  ejac- 
ulation which  none  present  heard ; but  I take  the  sense  of 
it  to  be,  she  returned  thanks  for  this  unexpected  inter- 
position in  her  favor  when  she  had  least  reason  to  expect 
it.  My  master  was  greatly  lamented:  there  was  no  life  in 
him  when  we  lifted  him  oft  the  barrow,  so  he  was  laid  out 
immediately,  and  waked  the  same  night.  The  country 
was  all  in  an  uproar  about  him,  and  not  a soul  but  cried 
shame  upon  his  murderer,  who  would  have  been  hanged 
surely,  if  he  could  have  been  brought  to  his  trial,  whilst  the 
gentlemen  in  the  country  were  up  about  it;  but  he  very 
prudently  withdrew  himself  to  the  Continent  before  the 
affair  was  made  public.  As  for  the  young  lady  who  was  the 
immediate  cause  of  the  fatal  accident,  however  innocently, 
she  could  never  show  her  head  after  at  the  balls  in  the 
county  or  any  place;  and  by  the  advice  of  her  friends  and 
physicians  she  was  ordered  soon  after  to  Bath,  where  it 
was  expected,  if  anywhere  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  she 
would  meet  with  the  recovery  of  her  health  and  lost  peace 
of  mind.  As  a proof  of  his  great  popularity,  I need  only 
add  that  there  was  a song  made  upon  my  master’s  untimely 
death  in  the  newspapers,  which  was  in  everybody’s  mouth, 
singing  up  and  down  through  the  country,  even  down  to 
the  mountains,  only  three  days  after  his  unhappy  exit.  He 
was  also  greatly  bemoaned  at  the  Curragh,  where  his  cattle 
were  well  known ; and  all  who  had  taken  up  his  bets  were 
particularly  inconsolable  for  his  loss  to  society.  His  stud 
sold  at  the  cant  at  the  greatest  price  ever  known  in 
the  county;  his  favorite  horses  were  chiefly  disposed  of 
amongst  his  particular  friends,  who  would  give  any  price 
for  them,  for  his  sake;  but  no  ready  money  was  required 
by  the  new  heir,  who  wished  not  to  displease  any  of  the 
gentlemen  of  the  neighborhood  just  upon  his  coming  to 
settle  amongst  them;  so  a long  credit  was  given  where 
requisite,  and  the  cash  has  never  been  gathered  in  from 
that  day  to  this. 

But  to  return  to  my  lady.  She  got  surprisingly  well 
after  my  master’s  decease.  No  sooner  was  it  known  for 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1013 


certain  that  he  was  dead,  than  all  the  gentlemen  within 
twenty  miles  of  us  came  in  a body,  as  it  were,  to  set  my 
lady  at  liberty,  and  to  protest  against  her  confinement, 
which  they  now  for  the  first  time  understood  was  against 
her  own  consent.  The  ladies  too  were  as  attentive  as  pos- 
sible, striving  who  should  be  foremost  with  their  morning 
visits;  and  they  that  saw  the  diamonds  spoke  very  hand- 
somely of  them,  but  thought  it  a pity  they  were  not  be- 
stowed, if  it  had  so  pleased  God,  upon  a lady  who  would 
have  become  them  better.  All  these  civilities  wrought 
little  with  my  lady,  for  she  had  taken  an  unaccountable 
prejudice  against  the  country,  and  everything  belonging 
to  it,  and  was  so  partial  to  her  native  land,  that  after 
parting  with  the  cook,  which  she  did  immediately  upon 
my  master ^s  decease,  I never  knew  her  easy  one  instant, 
night  or  day,  but  when  she  was  packing  up  to  leave  us. 
Had  she  meant  to  make  any  stay  in  Ireland,  I stood  a great 
chance  of  being  a great  favorite  with  her;  for  when  she 
found  I understood  the  weathercock,  she  was  always  find- 
ing some  pretense  to  be  talking  to  me,  and  asking  me  which 
way  the  wind  blew,  and  was  it  likely,  did  I think,  to  con- 
tinue fair  for  England. 

But  when  I saw  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  spend  the 
rest  of  her  days  upon  her  own  income  and  jewels  in  Eng- 
land, I considered  her  quite  as  a foreigner,  and  not  at  all 
any  longer  as  part  of  the  family.  She  gave  no  veils  to  the 
servants  at  Castle  Rackrent  at  parting,  notwithstanding 
the  old  proverb  of  as  rich  as  a Jew,^^  which,  she  being  a 
Jewish,  they  built  upon  with  reason.  But  from  first  to  last 
she  brought  nothing  but  misfortune  amongst  us;  and  if  it 
had  not  been  all  along  with  her,  his  honor.  Sir  Kit,  would 
have  been  now  alive  in  all  appearance.  Her  diamond  cross 
was,  they  say,  at  the  bottom  of  it  all ; and  it  was  a shame 
for  her,  being  his  Avife,  not  to  show  more  duty,  and  to  have 
given  it  up  when  he  condescended  to  ask  so  often  for  such 
a bit  of  a trifie  in  his  distresses,  especially  when  he  all 
along  made  it  no  secret  he  married  for  money.  But  we 
will  not  bestow  another  thought  upon  her.  This  much  I 
thought  it  lay  upon  my  conscience  to  sa}^,  in  justice  to  my 
poor  master’s  memor3\ 

’T  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  no  good ; the  same 


1014 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


wind  that  took  the  Jew  Lady  Kackrent  over  to  England 
brought  over  the  new  heir  to  Castle  Rackrent. 

Here  let  me  pause  for  breath  in  my  story,  for  though  I 
had  a great  regard  for  every  member  of  the  family,  yet 
without  compare  Sir  Conolly,  commonly  called,  for  short, 
amongst  his  friends.  Sir  Condy  Rackrent,  was  ever  my 
great  favorite;  and  indeed,  the  most  universally  beloved 
man  I had  ever  seen  or  heard  of,  not  excepting  his  great 
ancestor  Sir  Patrick,  to  whose  memory  he,  amongst  other 
instances  of  generosity,  erected  a handsome  marble  stone 
in  the  church  of  Castle  Rackrent,  setting  forth  in  large 
letters  his  age,  birth,  parentage,  and  many  other  virtues, 
concluding  with  the  compliment  so  justly  due,  that  ‘‘  Sir 
Patrick  Rackrent  lived  and  died  a monument  of  old  Irish 
hospitality.’’ 


CONTINUATION  OF  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  THE 
RACKRENT  FAMILY. 

HISTORY  OP  SIR  CONOLLY  RACKRENT. 

Sir  Condy  Rackrent  by  the  grace  of  God  heir-at-law 
to  the  Castle  Rackrent  estate  was  a remote  branch  of  the 
family.  Born  to  little  or  no  fortune  of  his  own,  he  was 
bred  to  the  bar,  at  which,  having  many  friends  to  push 
him  and  no  mean  natural  abilities  of  his  own,  he  doubtless 
would  in  process  of  time,  if  he  could  have  borne  the  drudg- 
ery of  that  study,  have  been  rapidly  made  King’s  Counsel 
at  the  least,  but  things  were  disposed  of  otherwise,  and  he 
never  went  the  circuit  but  twice,  and  then  made  no  figure 
for  want  of  a fee  and  being  unable  to  speak  in  public.  He 
received  his  education  chiefly  in  the  College  of  Dublin,  but 
before  he  came  to  years  of  discretion  lived  in  the  country, 
in  a small  but  slated  house  within  view  of  the  end  of  the 
avenue.  I remember  him,  bare-footed  and  headed,  running 
through  the  street  of  O’Shaughlin’s  Town,  and  playing  at 
pitch-and-toss,  ball,  marbles,  and  what  not,  with  the  boys 
of  the  town,  amongst  whom  my  son  Jason  was  a great  fa- 
vorite with  him.  As  for  me,  he  was  ever  my  white-headed 
hoy;  often ’s  the  time,  when  I would  call  in  at  his  father’s, 
where  I was  always  made  welcome,  he  would  slip  down  to 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1015 


me  in  the  kitchen,  and  love  to  sit  on  my  knee  whilst  I told 
him  stories  of  the  family  and  the  blood  from  which  he  was 
sprung,  and  how  he  might  look  forward,  if  the  then  present 
man  should  die  without  children,  to  being  at  the  head  of 
the  Castle  Rackrent  estate. 

This  was  then  spoke  quite  and  clear,  at  random  to  please 
the  child,  but  it  pleased  Heaven  to  accomplish  my  prophecy 
afterwards,  which  gave  him  a great  opinion  of  my  judg- 
ment in  business.  He  went  to  a little  grammar-school  with 
many  others,  and  my  son  amongst  the  rest,  who  was  in  his 
class,  and  not  a little  useful  to  him  in  his  book-learning, 
which  he  acknowledged  with  gratitude  ever  after.  These 
rudiments  of  his  education  thus  completed,  he  got  a-horse- 
back,  to  which  exercise  he  was  ever  addicted,  and  used  to 
gallop  over  the  country  while  yet  but  a slip  of  a boy,  under 
the  care  of  Sir  KiCs  huntsman,  who  was  very  fond  of  him, 
and  often  lent  him  his  gun,  and  took  him  out  a-shooting 
under  his  own  eye.  By  these  means  he  became  well  ac- 
quainted and  popular  amongst  the  poor  in  the  neighbor- 
hood early,  for  there  was  not  a cabin  at  which  he  had  not 
stopped  some  morning  or  other,  along  with  the  huntsman, 
to  drink  a glass  of  burnt  whisky  out  of  an  egg-shell,  to  do 
him  good  and  warm  his  heart  and  drive  the  cold  out  of  his 
stomach.  The  old  people  always  told  him  he  was  a great 
likeness  of  Sir  Patrick,  which  made  him  first  have  an  ambi- 
tion to  take  after  him,  as  far  as  his  fortune  should  allow. 
He  left  us  when  of  an  age  to  enter  the  college,  and  there 
completed  his  education  and  nineteenth  year,  for  as  he  was 
not  born  to  an  estate,  his  friends  thought  it  incumbent  on 
them  to  give  him  the  best  education  which  could  be  had  for 
love  or  money,  and  a great  deal  of  money  consequently  was 
spent  upon  him  at  College  and  Temple.  He  was  a.  very 
little  altered  for  the  worse  by  what  he  saw  there  of  the 
great  world,  for  when  he  came  down  into  the  country  to 
pay  us  a visit,  we  thought  him  just  the  same  man  as  ever — 
hand  and  glove  with  every  one,  and  as  far  from  high, 
though  not  Avithout  his  own  proper  share  of  family  pride, 
as  any  man  ever  you  see. 

Latterly,  seeing  how  Sir  Kit  and  the  Jewish  lived  to- 
gether, and  that  there  was  no  one  between  him  and  the 
Castle  Rackrent  estate,  he  neglected  to  apply  to  the  law  as 
much  as  was  expected  of  him,  and  secretly  many  of  the 


1016 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


tenants  and  others  advanced  him  cash  upon  his  note  of 
hand  value  received,  promising  bargains  of  leases  and  law- 
ful interest,  should  he  ever  come  into  the  estate.  All  this 
was  kept  a great  secret  for  fear  the  present  man,  hearing  of 
it,  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  take  it  ill  of  poor  Condy, 
and  so  should  cut  him  off  for  ever  by  levying  a fine,  and 
suffering  a recovery  to  dock  the  entail.  Sir  Murtagh  would 
have  been  the  man  for  that ; but  Sir  Kit  was  too  much  taken 
up  philandering  to  consider  the  law  in  this  case,  or  any 
other.  These  practices  I have  mentioned  to  account  for  the 
state  of  his  affairs — I mean  Sir  Condy’s  upon  his  coming 
into  the  Castle  Rackrent  estate.  He  could  not  command 
a penny  of  his  first  j^ear’s  income,  which,  and  keeping  no 
accounts,  and  the  great  sight  of  company  he  did,  with  many 
other  causes  too  numerous  to  mention,  was  the  origin  of 
his  distresses. 

My  son  Jason,  who  was  now  established  agent,  and  knew 
everything,  explained  matters  out  of  the  face  to  Sir  Con- 
olly,  and  made  him  sensible  of  his  embarrassed  situation. 
With  a great  nominal  rent-roll,  it  was  almost  all  paid  away 
in  interest;  which  being  for  convenience  suffered  to  run 
on,  soon  doubled  the  principal,  and  Sir  Condy  was  obliged 
to  pass  new  bonds  for  the  interest,  now  grown  principal, 
and  so  on.  Whilst  this  was  going  on,  my  son,  requiring  to 
be  paid  for  his  trouble  and  many  years’  service  in  the  fam- 
ily gratis,  and  Sir  Condy  not  willing  to  take  his  affairs  into 
his  own  hands,  or  to  look  them  even  in  the  face,  he  gave 
my  son  a bargain  of  some  acres  which  fell  out  of  lease  at  a 
reasonable  rent.  Jason  let  the  land,  as  soon  as  his  lease  was 
sealed,  to  under-tenants,  to  make  the  rent,  and  got  two 
hundred  a year  profit  rent;  which  was  little  enough  con- 
sidering his  long  agency.  He  bought  the  land  at  twelve 
years’  purchase  two  j^ars  afterwards,  when  Sir  Condy  was 
pushed  for  money  on  an  execution,  and  was  at  the  same 
time  allowed  for  his  improvements  thereon. 

There  was  a sort  of  hunting-lodge  upon  the  estate,  con- 
venient to  my  son  Jason’s  land,  which  he  had  his  eye  upon 
about  this  time;  and  he  was  a little  jealous  of  Sir  Condy, 
who  talked  of  letting  it  to  a stranger  who  was  just  come 
into  the  country — Captain  Moneygawl  was  the  man.  He 
was  son  and  heir  to  the  Moneygawls  of  Mount  Juliet’s 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1017 


and  my  master  was  loth  to  disoblige  the  young  gentleman, 
whose  heart  was  set  upon  the  Lodge ; so  he  wrote  him  back 
that  the  Lodge  was  at  his  service,  and  if  he  would  honor 
him  with  his  company  at  Castle  Rackrent,  they  could  ride 
over  together  some  morning  and  look  at  it  before  signing 
the  lease.  Accordingly,  the  captain  came  over  to  us,  and 
he  and  Sir  Condy  grew  the  greatest  friends  ever  you  see, 
and  were  for  ever  out  a-shooting  or  hunting  together,  and 
were  very  merry  in  the  evenings;  and  Sir  Condy  was  invited 
of  course  to  Mount  JulieCs  Town;  and  the  family  intimacy 
that  had  been  in  Sir  Patrick’s  time  was  now  recollected, 
and  nothing  would  serve  Sir  Condy  but  he  must  be  three 
times  a week  at  the  least  with  his  new  friends,  which 
grieved  me,  who  knew,  by  the  captain’s  groom  and  gentle- 
man, how  they  talked  of  him  at  Mount  Juliet’s  Town,  mak- 
ing him  quite,  as  one  may  say,  a laughing-stock  and  a butt 
for  the  whole  company;  but  they  were  soon  cured  of  that 
by  an  accident  that  surprised  ’em  not  a little,  as  it  did  me. 

There  was  a bit  of  a scrawl  found  upon  the  waiting-maid 
of  old  Mr.  Money gawl’s  youngest  daughter.  Miss  Isabella, 
that  laid  open  the  whole ; and  her  father,  the}"  say,  was  like 
one  out  of  his  right  mind,  and  swore  it  was  the  last  thing 
he  ever  should  have  thought  of,  when  he  invited  my  master 
to  his  house,  that  his  daughter  should  think  of  such  a 
match.  But  their  talk  signified  not  a straw,  for  as  Miss 
Isabella’s  maid  reported,  her  }"oung  mistress  was  fallen 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Sir  Condy  from  the  first 
time  that  ever  her  brother  brought  him  into  the  house  to 
dinner.  The  servant  who  waited  that  day  behind  my  mas- 
ter’s chair  was  the  first  who  knew  it,  as  he  says;  though  it ’s 
hard  to  believe  him,  for  he  did  not  tell  it  till  a great  while 
afterwards;  but,  however,  it ’s  likely  enough,  as  the  thing 
turned  out,  that  he  was  not  far  out  of  the  way,  for  towards 
the  middle  of  dinner,  as  he  says,  they  were  talking  of  stage- 
plays,  having  a play-house,  and  being  great  play-actors  at 
Mount  Juliet’s  Town;  and  Miss  Isabella  turns  short  to  my 
master,  and  says: 

‘‘  Have  you  seen  the  play-bill.  Sir  Condy?  ” 

‘‘No,  I have  not,”  said  he. 

“ Then  more  shame  for  you,”  said  the  captain  her 
brother,  “ not  to  know  that  my  sister  is  to  play  Juliet  to- 


1018 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


night,  who  plays  it  better  than  any  woman  on  or  off  the 
stage  in  all  Ireland.’’ 

I am  very  happy  to  hear  it,”  said  Sir  Condy;  and  there 
the  matter  dropped  for  the  present. 

But  Sir  Condy  all  this  time,  and  a great  while  after- 
ward, was  at  a terrible  non-plus ; for  he  had  no  liking,  not 
he,  to  stage-plays,  nor  to  Miss  Isabella  either — to  his  mind, 
as  it  came  out  over  a bowl  of  whisky-punch  at  home,  his 
little  Judy  M’Quirk,  who  was  daughter  to  a sister’s  son  of 
mine,  was  worth  twenty  of  Miss  Isabella.  He  had  seen  her 
often  when  he  stopped  at  her  father’s  cabin  to  drink  whisky 
out  of  the  egg-shell,  out  hunting,  before  he  came  to  the  es- 
tate, and,  as  she  gave  out,  was  under  something  like  a 
promise  of  marriage  to  her.  Anyhow,  I could  not  but  pity 
my  poor  master,  who  was  so  bothered  between  them,  and 
he  an  easy-hearted  man,  that  could  not  disoblige  nobody — 
God  bless  him ! To  be  sure,  it  was  not  his  place  to  behave 
ungenerous  to  Miss  Isabella,  who  had  disobliged  all  her  re- 
lations for  his  sake,  as  he  remarked ; and  then  she  was 
locked  up  in  her  chamber,  and  forbid  to  think  of  him  any 
more,  which  raised  his  spirit,  because  his  family  was  as 
good  as  theirs  at  any  rate,  and  the  Kackrents  a suitable 
match  for  the  IMoneygawls  any  day  in  the  year ; all  which 
was  true  enough.  But  it  grieved  me  to  see  that,  upon  the 
strength  of  all  this.  Sir  Condy  was  grooving  more  in  the 
mind  to  carry  off  Miss  Isabella  to  Scotland,  in  spite  of  her 
relations,  as  she  desired. 

It ’s  all  over  with  our  poor  Judy ! ” said  I,  with  a heavy 
sigh,  making  bold  to  speak  to  him  one  night  when  he  was  a 
little  cheerful,  and  standing  in  the  servants’  hall  all  alone 
with  me,  as  was  often  his  custom. 

“ Not  at  all,”  said  he;  I never  was  fonder  of  Judy  than 
at  this  present  speaking ; and  to  prove  it  to  you,”  said  he — 
and  he  took  from  my  hand  a halfpenny  change  that  I had 
just  got  along  with  my  tobacco — “ and  to  prove  it  to  you, 
Thady,”  says  he,  it ’s  a toss-up  with  me  which  I should 
marry  this  minute,  her  or  Mr.  Moneygawl  of  Mount  Juliet’s 
Town’s  daughter — so  it  is.” 

Oh — boo ! boo ! ” says  I,  making  light  of  it,  to  see  what 
he  would  go  on  to  next;  “ your  honor ’s  joking,  to  be  sure; 
there’s  no  compare  between  our  poor  Judy  and  Miss  Isa- 
bella, who  has  a great  fortune,  they  say.” 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1019 


“ I ’m  not  a man  to  mind  a fortune,  nor  never  was,’^  said 
Sir  Condy,  proudly,  Avhatever  her  friends  may  say ; and 
to  make  short  of  it,’’  says  he,  I ’m  come  to  a determination 
upon  the  spot.”  With  that  he  swore  such  a terrible  oath  as 
made  me  cross  myself.  And  by  this  book,”  said  he, 
snatching  up  my  ballad-book,  mistaking  it  for  my  prayer- 
book,  which  lay  in  the  window ; and  by  this  book,”  says 
he,  and  by  all  the  books  that  ever  were  shut  and  opened, 
it ’s  come  to  a toss-up  with  me,  and  I ’ll  stand  or  fall  by  the 
toss ; and  so  Thady,  hand  me  over  that  pin  out  of  the  ink- 
horn  ” ; and  he  makes  a cross  on  the  smooth  side  of  the 
halfpenny;  Judy  M’Quirk,”  says  he,  her  mark.” 

God  bless  him ! his  hand  was  a little  unsteadied  by  all  the 
whisky-punch  he  had  taken,  but  it  was  plain  to  see  his 
heart  was  for  poor  Judy.  My  heart  was  all  as  one  as  in  my 
mouth  when  I saw  the  halfpenny  up  in  the  air,  but  I said 
nothing  at  all;  and  when  it  came  down  I was  glad  I had 
kept  myself  to  myself,  for  to  be  sure  now  it  was  all  over 
with  poor  Judy. 

Judy ’s  out  a luck,”  said  I,  striving  to  laugh. 

I ’m  out  a luck,”  said  he ; and  I never  saw  a man  look 
so  cast  down : he  took  up  the  halfpenny  off  the  flag,  and 
walked  away  quite  sober-like  by  the  shock.  Now,  though 
as  easy  a man,  you  would  think,  as  an^^  in  the  wide  world, 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  making  him  unsay  one  of  these 
sort  of  vows,  which  he  had  learned  to  reverence  when 
young,  as  I well  remember  teaching  him  to  toss  up  for  bog- 
berries  on  my  knee.  So  I saw  the  affair  was  as  good  as 
settled  between  him  and  Miss  Isabella,  and  I had  no  more 
to  say  but  to  wish  her  joy,  which  I did  the  week  afterwards, 
upon  her  return  from  Scotland  with  my  poor  master. 

My  new  lady  was  young,  as  might  be  supposed  of  a lady 
that  had  been  carried  off  by  her  own  consent  to  Scotland ; 
but  I could  only  see  her  at  first  through  her  veil,  which, 
from  baslifulness  or  fashion,  she  kept  over  her  face. 

And  am  I to  walk  through  all  this  crowd  of  people,  my 
dearest  love?  ” said  she  to  Sir  Condy,  meaning  us  servants 
and  tenants,  who  had  gathered  at  the  back  gate. 

My  dear,”  said  Sir  Condy,  there ’s  nothing  for  it  but 
to  walk,  or  to  let  me  carry  you  as  far  as  the  house,  for  you 
the  back  road  is  too  narrow  for  a carriage,  and  the 


1020 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


great  piers  have  tumbled  down  across  the  front  approach : 
so  there ’s  no  driving  the  right  way,  by  reason  of  the  ruins.’^ 

Plato,  thou  reasonest  well ! said  she,  or  words  to  that 
effect,  which  I could  noways  understand ; and  again,  when 
her  foot  stumbled  against  a broken  bit  of  a car-wheel,  she 
cried  out,  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  I 
Well,  thought  I,  to  be  sure,  if  she  ^s  no  Jewish,  like  the  last 
she  is  a mad-woman  for  certain,  which  is  as  bad : it  would 
have  been  as  well  for  my  poor  master  to  have  taken  up  with 
poor  Judy,  who  is  in  her  right  mind  anyhow. 

She  was  dressed  like  a mad-woman,  moreover,  more  than 
like  any  one  I ever  saw  afore  or  since,  and  I could  not  take 
my  eyes  off  her,  but  still  followed  behind  her;  and  her 
feathers  on  the  top  of  her  hat  were  broke  going  in  at  the 
low  back  door,  and  she  pulled  out  her  little  bottle  out  of 
her  pocket  to  smell  when  she  found  herself  in  the  kitchen, 
and  said,  I shall  faint  with  the  heat  of  this  odious,  odious 
place.^^ 

My  dear,  it  ^s  only  three  steps  across  the  kitchen,  and 
there  'S  a fine  air  if  your  veil  was  up,’’  said  Sir  Condy;  and 
with  that  threw  back  her  veil,  so  that  I had  then  a full 
sight  of  her  face.  She  had  not  at  all  the  color  of  one  going 
to  faint,  but  a fine  complexion  of  her  own,  as  I then  took 
it  to  be,  though  her  maid  told  me  after  it  was  all  put  on ; 
but  even,  complexion  and  all  taken  in,  she  was  no  way,  in 
point  of  good  looks,  to  compare  to  poor  Judy,  and  withal 
she  had  a quality  toss  with  her ; but  maybe  it  was  my  over- 
partiality to  Judy,  into  whose  place  I may  say  she  stepped, 
that  made  me  notice  all  this. 

To  do  her  justice,  however,  she  was,  when  we  came  to 
know  her  better,  very  liberal  in  her  housekeeping — nothing 
at  all  of  the  skinflint  in  her;  she  left  everything  to  the 
housekeeper,  and  her  own  maid,  Mrs.  Jane,  who  went  with 
her  to  Scotland,  gave  her  the  best  of  characters  for  gen- 
erosity. She  seldom  or  ever  wore  a thing  twice  the  same 
way,  Mrs.  Jane  told  us,  and  was  always  pulling  her  things 
to  pieces  and  giving  them  away,  never  being  used,  in  her 
father’s  house,  to  think  of  expense  in  anything;  and  she 
reckoned  to  be  sure  to  go  on  the  same  way  at  Castle  Eack- 
rent;  but  when  I came  to  inquire,  I learned  that  lier 
father  was  so  mad  with  her  for  running  off,  after  his  lock- 
ing her  up  and  forbidding  her  to  think  any  more  of  Sir 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1021 


Condy,  that  he  would  not  give  her  a farthing;  and  it  was 
lucky  for  her  she  had  a few  thousands  of  her  own,  which 
had  been  left  to  her  by  a good  grandmother,  and  these  were 
convenient  to  begin  with. 

My  master  and  my  lady  set  out  in  great  style ; they  had 
the  finest  coach  and  chariot,  and  horses  and  liveries,  and 
cut  the  greatest  dash  in  the  county,  returning  their  wed- 
ding visits;  and  it  was  immediately  reported  that  her 
father  had  undertaken  to  pay  all  my  master’s  debts,  and  of 
course  all  his  tradesmen  gave  him  a new  credit,  and  every 
thing  went  on  smack-smooth,  and  1 could  not  but  admire 
my  lady’s  spirit,  and  was  proud  to  see  Castle  Kackrent 
again  in  all  its  glory.  My  lady  had  a fine  taste  for  build- 
ing, and  furniture,  and  playhouses,  and  she  turned  every 
thing  topsy-turvy,  and  made  the  barrack-room  into  a thea- 
ter, as  she  called  it,  and  she  went  on  as  if  she  had  a 
mint  of  money  at  her  elbow;  and  to  be  sure  I thought  she 
knew  best,  especially  as  Sir  Condy  said  nothing  to  it  one 
way  or  the  other.  All  he  asked,  God  bless  him ! was  to  live 
in  peace  and  quietness,  and  have  his  bottle  or  his  whisky- 
punch  at  night  to  himself.  Now  this  was  little  enough,  to 
be  sure,  for  any  gentleman ; but  my  lady  couldn’t  abide  the 
smell  of  the  whisky-punch. 

My  dear,”  says  he,  you  liked  it  well  enough  before  we 
were  married,  and  why  not  now?  ” 

My  dear,”  said  she,  I never  smelt  it,  or  I assure  you  I 
should  never  have  prevailed  upon  myself  to  marry  you.” 

My  dear,  I am  sorry  you  did  not  smell  it,  but  we  can’t 
help  that  now,”  returned  my  master,  without  putting  him- 
self in  a passion  or  going  out  of  his  way,  but  just  fair  and 
easy  helped  himself  to  another  glass,  and  drank  it  off  to 
her  good  health. 

All  this  the  butler  told  me,  who  was  going  backwards 
and  forwards  unnoticed  with  the  jug,  and  hot  water  and 
sugar,  and  all  he  thought  wanting.  Upon  my  master’s 
swallowing  the  last  glass  of  whisky-punch,  my  lady  burst 
into  tears,  calling  him  an  ungrateful,  base,  barbarous 
wretch,  and  went  off  into  a fit  of  hysterics,  as  I think  Mrs. 
Jane  called  it;  and  my  poor  master  was  greatly  frightened, 
this  being  the  first  thing  of  the  kind  he  had  seen,  and  he 
fell  straight  on  his  knees  before  her,  and,  like  a good- 
hearted  cratur  as  he  was,  ordered  the  whisky-punch  out  of 


1022 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


the  room,  and  bid  ’em  throw  open  all  the  windows,  and 
cursed  himself;  and  then  my  lady  came  to  herself  again, 
and  when  she  saw  him  kneeling  there,  bid  him  get  up,  and 
not  forswear  himself  any  more,  for  that  she  was  sure  he  did 
not  love  her,  and  never  had.  This  we  learned  from  Mr^ 
Jane,  who  was  the  only  person  left  present  at  all  this. 

My  dear,”  returns  my  master,  thinking,  to  be  sure,  or 
Judy,  as  well  he  might,  ‘‘  whoever  told  you  so  is  an  incen- 
diary, and  I ’ll  have  ’em  turned  out  of  the  house  this  min- 
ute, if  you  ’ll  only  let  me  know  which  of  them  it  was.” 

Told  me  what?  ” said  my  lady,  starting  upright  in  her 
chair. 

‘‘  Nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all,”  said  my  master,  seeing 
he  had  overshot  himself,  and  that  my  lady  spoke  at  ran- 
dom ; but  what  you  said  just  now,  that  I did  not  love  you, 
Bella;  who  told  you  that?  ” 

“ My  own  sense,”  she  said,  and  she  put  her  handkerchief 
to  her  face  and  leant  back  upon  Mrs.  Jane,  and  fell  to  sob- 
bing as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Why  now,  Bella,  this  is  very  strange  of  you,”  said  my 
poor  master;  if  nobody  has  told  you  nothing,  what  is  it 
you  are  talking  on  for  at  this  rate,  and  exposing  yourself 
and  me  for  this  way?  ” 

Oh,  say  no  more,  say  no  more ; every  word  you  say 
kills  me,”  cried  my  lady;  and  she  ran  on  like  one,  as  Mrs. 
Jane  says,  raving,  ‘‘  Oh,  Sir  Condy,  Sir  Condy ! I that  had 
hoped  to  find  in  you ” 

Wli3^  now,  faith,  this  is  a little  too  much;  do,  Bella,  try 
to  recollect  yourself,  my  dear ; am  not  I your  husband,  and 
of  your  own  choosing,  and  is  not  that  enough?  ” 

Oh,  too  much ! too  much ! ” cried  my  lady,  wringing  her 
hands. 

Why,  my  dear,  come  to  your  right  senses,  for  the  love 
of  Heaven.  See,  is  not  the  whisky-punch,  jug  and  bowl  and 
all,  gone  out  of  the  room  long  ago?  What  is  it,  in  the  wide 
world,  you  have  to  complain  of?  ” 

But  still  my  lady  sobbed  and  sobbed,  and  called  herself 
the  most  wretched  of  women;  and  among  other  out-of-the- 
way,  provoking  things,  asked  my  master  was  he  fit  com- 
pany for  her,  and  he  drinking  all  night?  This  nettling 
him,  which  it  was  hard  to  do,  he  replied  that,  as  to  drinking 
all  night,  he  was  then  as  sober  as  she  was  herself,  and  that 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1023 


it  was  DO  matter  how  much  a man  drank,  provided  it  did 
no  ways  affect  or  stagger  him ; that  as  to  being  fit  company 
for  her,  he  thought  himself  of  a family  to  be  fit  company 
for  any  lord  or  lady  in  the  land;  but  that  he  never  pre- 
vented her  from  seeing  and  keeping  what  company  she 
pleased,  and  that  he  had  done  his  best  to  make  Castle  Rack- 
rent  pleasing  to  her  since  her  marriage,  having  always  had 
the  house  full  of  visitors,  and  if  her  own  relations  were  not 
amongst  them,  he  said  that  was  their  own  fault,  and  their 
pride’s  fault,  of  which  he  was  sorry  to  find  her  ladyship  had 
so  unbecoming  a share. 

So  concluding,  he  took  his  candle  and  walked  off  to  his 
room,  and  my  lady  was  in  her  tantrums  for  three  days 
after,  and  would  have  been  so  much  longer,  no  doubt,  but 
some  of  her  friends,  young  ladies  and  cousins  and  second 
cousins,  came  to  Castle  Rackrent,  by  poor  master’s  express 
invitation,  to  see  her,  and  she  was  in  a hurry  to  get  up,  as 
Mrs.  Jane  called  it,  a play  for  them,  and  so  got  well,  and 
was  as  finely  dressed  and  as  happy  to  look  at  as  ever ; and 
all  the  young  ladies,  who  used  to  be  in  her  room  dressing 
of  her,  said  in  Mrs.  Jane’s  hearing  that  my  lady  was  the 
happiest  bride  ever  they  had  seen,  and  that,  to  be  sure,  a 
love-match  was  the  only  thing  for  happiness  where  the 
parties  could  any  way  afford  it. 

As  to  affording  it,  God  knows  it  was  little  they  knew  of 
the  matter : my  lady’s  few  thousands  could  not  last  forever, 
especially  the  way  she  went  on  with  them,  and  letters  from 
tradesfolk  came  every  post  thick  and  threefold,  with  bills 
as  long  as  my  arm,  of  years’  and  years’  standing.  My  son 
Jason  had  ’em  all  handed  over  to  him,  and  the  pressing 
letters  were  all  unread  by  Sir  Condy,  who  hated  trouble, 
and  could  never  be  brought  to  hear  talk  of  business,  but 
still  put  it  off  and  put  it  off,  saying,  Settle  it  anyhow,” 
or  Bid  ’em  call  again  to-morrow,”  or  Speak  to  me  about 
it  some  other  time.”  Now  it  was  hard  to  find  the  right 
time  to  speak,  for  in  the  mornings  he  was  a-bed,  and  in  the 
evenings  over  his  bottle,  where  no  gentleman  chooses  to  be 
disturbed.  Things  in  a twelve-month  or  so  came  to  such  a 
pass  there  was  no  making  a shift  to  go  on  any  longer, 
though  we  were  all  of  us  well  enough  used  to  live  from 
hand  to  mouth  at  Castle  Rackrent.  One  day,  I remember, 
.when  there  was  a power  of  company,  all  sitting  after  din- 


1024 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


ner  in  the  dusk,  not  to  say  dark,  in  the  drawing-room,  my 
lady  having  rung  five  times  for  candles  and  none  to  go  up, 
the  housekeeper  sent  up  the  footman,  who  went  to  my  mis- 
tress and  whispered  behind  her  chair  how  it  was. 

My  lady,’^  says  he,  there  are  no  candles  in  the  house.’’ 
Bless  me,”  says  she ; then  take  a horse  and  gallop  off 
as  fast  as  you  can  to  Garrick  O’Fungus,  and  get  some.” 
And  in  the  meantime  tell  them  to  step  into  the  play- 
house, and  try  if  there  are  not  some  bits  left,”  added  Sir 
Condy,  who  happened  to  be  within  hearing.  The  man  was 
sent  up  again  to  my  lady  to  let  her  know  there  was  no  horse 
to  go  but  one  that  wanted  a shoe. 

“ Go  to  Sir  Condy,  then ; I know  nothing  at  all  about  the 
horses,”  said  my  lady ; why  do  you  plague  me  with  these 
things?  ” How  it  was  settled  I really  forget,  but  to  the 
best  of  my  remembrance  the  boy  was  sent  down  to  my  son 
Jason’s  to  borrow  candles  for  the  night.  Another  time,  in 
the  winter,  and  on  a desperate  cold  day,  there  was  no  turf 
in  for  the  parlor  and  above  stairs,  and  scarce  enough  for 
the  cook  in  the  kitchen.  The  little  gossoon  was  sent  off  to 
the  neighbors  to  see  and  beg  or  borrow  some,  but  none 
could  he  bring  back  with  him  for  love  or  money,  so,  as 
needs  must,  we  were  forced  to  trouble  Sir  Condy — Well, 
and  if  there ’s  no  turf  to  be  had  in  the  town  or  country, 
why,  what  signifies  talking  any  more  about  it;  can’t  ye  go 
and  cut  down  a tree?  ” 

‘‘  Which  tree,  please  your  honor?  ” I made  bold  to  say. 
Any  tree  at  all  that ’s  good  to  burn,”  said  Sir  Condy ; 
“ send  off  smart  and  get  one  down  and  the  fires  lighted 
before  my  lady  gets  up  to  breakfast,  or  the  house  will  be 
too  hot  to  hold  us.” 

He  was  always  very  considerate  in  all  things  about  my 
lady,  and  she  wanted  for  nothing  whilst  he  had  it  to  give. 
Well,  when  things  were  tight  with  them  about  this  time, 
my  son  Jason  put  in  a word  again  about  the  Lodge,  and 
made  a genteel  offer  to  lay  down  the  purchase-money,  to 
relieve  Sir  Condy’s  distresses.  Now  Sir  Condy  had  it  from 
the  best  authority  that  there  were  two  writs  come  down  to 
the  sheriff  against  his  person,  and  the  sheriff,  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  was  no  friend  of  his,  and  talked  how  he  must 
do  his  duty,  and  how  he  would  do  it,  if  it  was  against  the 
first  man  in  the  country,  or  even  his  own  brother,  let  alone 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1025 


one  who  had  voted  against  him  at  the  last  election,  as  Sir 
Condy  had  done.  So  Sir  Condy  was  fain  to  take  the  pur- 
chase-money of  the  Lodge  from  my  son  Jason  to  settle  mat- 
ters ; and  sure  enough  it  was  a good  bargain  for  both  par- 
ties, for  my  son  bought  the  fee-simple  of  a good  house  for 
him  and  his  heirs  forever,  for  little  or  nothing,  and  by 
selling  of  it  for  that  same  my  master  saved  himself  from  a 
jail.  Every  way  it  turned  out  fortunate  for  Sir  Condy,  for 
before  the  money  was  all  gone  there  came  a general  elec- 
tion, and  he  being  so  well  beloved  in  the  county,  and  one  of 
the  oldest  families,  no  one  had  a better  right  to  stand  candi- 
date for  the  vacancy;  and  he  was  called  upon  by  all  his 
friends,  and  the  whole  county,  I may  say,  to  declare  him- 
self against  the  old  member,  who  had  little  thought  of  a 
contest.  My  master  did  not  relish  the  thoughts  of  a 
troublesome  canvass  and  all  the  ill-will  he  might  bring 
upon  himself  by  disturbing  the  peace  of  the  county,  be- 
sides the  expense,  which  was  no  trifle;  but  all  his  friends 
called  upon  one  another  to  subscribe,  and  they  formed 
themselves  into  a committee,  and  wrote  all  his  circular-let- 
ters for  him,  and  engaged  all  his  agents,  and  did  all  the 
business  unknown  to  him ; and  he  was  well  pleased  that  it 
should  be  so  at  last,  and  my  lady  herself  was  very  sanguine 
about  the  election;  and  there  was  open  house  kept  night 
and  day  at  Castle  Rackrent,  and  I thought  I never  saw  my 
lady  look  so  well  in  her  life  as  she  did  at  that  time.  There 
were  grand  dinners,  ^y^d  all  the  gentlemen  drinking  success 
to  Sir  Condy  till  they  were  carried  off;  and  then  dances 
and  balls,  and  the  ladies  all  finishing  with  a raking  pot  of 
tea  in  the  morning.  Indeed,  it  was  well  the  company  made 
it  their  choice  to  sit  up  all  nights,  for  there  were  not  half 
beds  enough  for  the  sights  of  people  that  were  in  it,  though 
there  were  shake-downs  in  the  drawing-room  always  made  ^ 
up  before  sunrise  for  those  that  liked  it. 

For  my  part,  when  I saw  the  doings  that  were  going  on, 
and  the  loads  of  claret  that  went  down  the  throats  of  them 
that  had  no  right  to  be  asking  for  it,  and  the  sights  of  meat 
that  went  up  to  table  and  never  came  down,  besides  what 
was  carried  off  to  one  or  V other  below  stair,  I couldn’t  but 
pity  my  poor  master,  who  was  to  pay  for  all ; but  I said 
nothing,  for  fear  of  gaining  m^^self  ill-will.  The  day  of 
election  will  come  some  time  or  other,  says  I to  myself,  and 

II— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1026 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


all  will  be  over;  and  so  it  did,  and  a glorious  day  it  was  as 
any  I ever  had  the  happiness  to  see. 

Huzza ! huzza ! Sir  Condy  Rackrent  forever ! was  the 
first  thing  I hears  in  the  morning,  and  the  same  and  noth- 
ing else  all  day,  and  not  a soul  sober  only  just  when  poll- 
ing, enough  to  give  their  votes  as  became  ’em,  and  to  stand 
the  browbeating  of  the  lawyers,  who  came  tight  enough 
upon  us;  and  many  of  our  freeholders  were  knocked  off, 
having  never  a freehold  that  they  could  safely  swear  to, 
and  Sir  Condy  was  not  willing  to  have  any  man  perjure 
himself  for  his  sake,  as  was  done  on  the  other  side,  God 
knows;  but  no  matter  for  that.  Some  of  our  friends  were 
dumbfounded  by  the  lawyers  asking  them : Had  they 

ever  been  upon  the  ground  where  their  freeholds  lay?  ” 
Now,  Sir  Condy,  being  tender  of  the  consciences  of  them 
that  had  not  been  on  the  ground,  and  so  could  not  swear 
to  a freehold  when  cross-examined  by  them  lawyers,  sent 
out  for  a couple  of  cleavefuls  ^ of  the  sods  of  his  farm  of 
Gulteeshinnagh ; and  as  soon  as  the  sods  came  into  town, 
he  set  each  man  upon  his  sod,  and  so  then,  ever  after,  you 
know,  they  could  fairly  swear  they  had  been  upon  the 
ground.  We  gained  the  day  by  this  piece  of  honesty.  I 
thought  I should  have  died  in  the  streets  for  joy  when  I 
seed  my  poor  master  chaired,  and  he  bareheaded,  and  it 
raining  as  hard  as  it  could  pour;  but  all  the  crowds  follow- 
ing him  up  and  down,  and  he  bowing  and  shaking  hands 
with  the  whole  town.  % 

Is  that  Sir  Condy  Rackrent  in  the  chair?  ” says  a 
stranger  man  in  the  crowd. 

‘‘  The  same,”  says  I.  ‘‘  Who  else  could  it  be?  God  bless 
him ! ” 

And  I take  it,  then,  you  belong  to  him?  ” says  he. 

Not  at  all,”  says  I ; but  I live  under  him,  and  have 
done  so  these  two  hundred  years  and  upwards,  me  and 
mine.” 

It ’s  lucky  for  you,  then,”  rejoins  he,  “ that  he  is  where 
he  is;  for  was  he  anywhere  else  but  in  the  chair,  this 
minute  he’d  be  in  a worse  place;  for  I was  sent  down  on 
purpose  to  put  him  up,  and  here ’s  my  order  for  so  doing 
in  my  pocket.” 

It  was  a writ  that  villain  the  wine  merchant  had  marked 

1 Cleave,  a large  basket. 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1027 


against  my  poor  master  for  some  Imndretls  of  an  old  debt, 
which  it  was  a shame  to  be  talking  of  at  such  a time  as  this. 

Put  it  in  your  pocket  again,  and  think  no  more  of  it 
anyways  for  seven  years  to  come,  my  honest  friend,’’  says 
I ; he ’s  a member  of  Parliament  now,  praised  be  God,  and 
such  as  you  can’t  touch  him ; and  if  you  ’ll  take  a fool’s, 
advice,  I ’d  have  you  keep  out  of  the  way  this  day,  or  you  ’ll 
run  a good  chance  of  getting  your  deserts  amongst  my 
master’s  friends,  unless  you  choose  to  drink  his  health  like 
everybody  else.” 

“ I ’ve  no  objection  to  that  in  life,”  said  he.  So  we  went 
into  one  of  the  public-houses  kept  open  for  my  master ; and 
we  had  a great  deal  of  talk  about  this  thing  and  that. 

And  how  is  it,”  says  he,  your  master  keeps  on  so  well 
upon  his  legs?  I heard  say  he  was  off  Holantide  twelve- 
month  past.” 

Never  was  better  or  heartier  in  his  life,”  said  I. 

^‘It’s  not  that  I’m  after  speaking  of,”  said  he;  but 
there  was  a great  report  of  his  being  ruined.” 

No  matter,”  says  I;  the  sheriffs  two  years  running 
were  his  particular  friends,  and  the  sub-sheriffs  were  both 
of  them  gentlemen,  and  were  properly  spoken  to;  and  so 
the  writs  lay  snug  with  them,  and  they,  as  I understand 
by  my  son  Jason  the  custom  in  them  cases  is,  returned  the 
writs  as  they  came  to  them  to  those  that  sent  ’em — much 
good  may  it  do  them! — Avith  a word  in  Latin,  that  no  such 
person  as  Sir  Condy  Rackrent,  Bart.,  was  to  be  found  in 
those  parts.” 

“ Oh,  I understand  all  those  ways  better — no  offense — 
than  you,”  says  he,  laughing,  and  at  the  same  time  filling 
his  glass  to  my  master’s  good  health,  which  convinced  me 
he  was  a warm  friend  in  his  heart  after  all,  though  appear- 
ances were  a little  suspicious  or  so  at  first.  To  be  sure,” 
says  he,  still  cutting  his  joke,  when  a man ’s  over  head 
and  shoulders  in  debt,  he  may  live  the  faster  for  it,  and  the 
better  if  he  goes  the  right  way  about  it,  or  else  how  is  it 
so  many  live  on  so  well,  as  we  see  every  day  after  they  are 
ruined?  ” 

How  is  it,”  says  I,  being  a little  merry  at  the  time; 

how  is  it  but  just  as  you  see  the  ducks  in  the  chicken- 
yard,  just  after  their  heads  are  cut  off  by  the  cook,  running 
round  and  round  faster  than  when  alive?  ” 


1028 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


At  which  conceit  he  fell  a-laughing,  and  remarked  he 
had  never  had  the  happiness  yet  to  see  the  chicken-yard  at 
Castle  Eackrent. 

It  won’t  be  long  so,  I hope,”  says  I ; yon  ’ll  be  kindly 
welcome  there,  as  everybody  is  made  by  my  master;  there 
is  not  a freer-spoken  gentleman  or  a better  beloved,  high 
or  low,  in  all  Ireland.” 

And  of  what  passed  after  this  I ’m  not  sensible,  for  we 
drank  Sir  Condy’s  good  health  and  the  downfall  of  his 
enemies  till  we  could  stand  no  longer  ourselves.  And  little 
did  I think  at  the  time,  or  till  long  after,  how  I was  har- 
boring my  poor  master’s  greatest  of  enemies  myself.  This 
fellow  had  the  impudence,  after  coming  to  see  the  chicken- 
yard,  to  get  me  to  introduce  him  to  my  son  Jason;  little 
more  than  the  man  that  never  was  born  did  I guess  at  his 
meaning  by  this  visit:  he  gets  him  a correct  list  fairly 
drawn  out  from  my  son  Jason  of  all  my  master’s  debts, 
and  goes  straight  round  to  the  creditors  and  buys  them  all 
up,  which  he  did  easy  enough,  seeing  the  half  of  them  never 
expected  to  "see  their  money  out  of  Sir  Condy’s  hands. 
Then,  when  this  base-minded  limb  of  the  law,  as  I after- 
wards detected  him  in  being,  grew  to  be  sole  creditor  over 
all,  he  takes  him  out  a custodiam  on  all  the  denominations 
and  sub-denominations,  and  even  carton  and  half-carton 
upon  the  estate;  and  not  content  with  that,  must  have  an 
execution  against  the  master’s  goods  and  down  to  the  fur- 
niture, though  little  worth,  of  Castle  Eackrent  itself.  But 
this  is  a part  of  my  story  I ’m  not  come  to  yet,  and  it ’s 
bad  to  be  forestalling:  ill  news  flies  fast  enough  all  the 
world  over. 

To  go  back  to  the  day  of  the  election,  which  I never  think 
of  but  with  pleasure  and  tears  of  gratitude  for  those  good 
times,  after  the  election  was  quite  and  clean  over,  there 
comes  shoals  of  people  from  all  parts,  claiming  to  have 
obliged  my  master  with  their  votes,  and  putting  him  in 
mind  of  promises  which  he  could  never  remember  himself 
to  have  made:  one  was  to  have  a freehold  for  each  of  his 
four  sons;  another  was  to  have  a renewal  of  a lease;  an- 
other an  abatement ; one  came  to  be  paid  ten  guineas  for  a 
pair  of  silver  buckles  sold  my  master  on  the  hustings, 
which  turned  out  to  be  no  better  than  copper  gilt;  another 
had  a long  bill  for  oats,  the  half  of  which  never  went  into 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1029 


the  granary  to  my  certain  knowledge,  and  the  other  half 
was  not  fit  for  the  cattle  to  touch;  but  the  bargain  was 
made  the  week  before  the  election,  and  the  coach  and 
saddle-horses  were  got  into  order  for  the  day,  besides  a 
vote  fairly  got  by  them  oats ; so  no  more  reasoning  on  that 
head.  But  then  there  was  no  end  to  them  that  were  telling 
Sir  Condy  he  had  engaged  to  make  their  sons  excisemen,  or 
high  constables,  or  the  like ; and  as  for  them  that  had  bills 
to  give  in  for  liquor,  and  beds,  and  straw,  and  ribands,  and 
horses,  and  post-chaises  for  the  gentlemen  freeholders  that 
came  from  all  parts  and  other  counties  to  vote  for  my 
master,  and  were  not,  to  be  sure,  to  be  at  any  charges,  there 
was  no  standing  against  all  these ; and,  worse  than  all,  the 
gentlemen  of  my  master^s  committee,  who  managed  all  for 
him,  and  talked  how  they ’d  bring  him  in  without  costing 
him  a penny,  and  subscribed  by  hundreds  very  genteelly, 
forgot  to  pay  their  subscriptions,  and  had  laid  out  in 
agents’  and  lawyers’  fees  and  secret-service  money  to  the 
Lord  knows  how  much;  and  my  master  could  never  ask 
one  of  them  for  their  subscription  you  are  sensible,  nor  for 
the  price  of  a fine  horse  he  had  sold  one  of  them ; so  it  all 
was  left  at  his  door. 

He  could  never,  God  bless  him  again  ! I say,  bring  himself 
to  ask  a gentleman  for  money,  despising  such  sort  of  con- 
versation himself;  but  others,  who  were  not  gentlemen 
born,  behaved  very  uncivil  in  pressing  him  at  this  very 
time,  and  all  he  could  do  to  content  ’em  all  was  to  take 
himself  out  of  the  way  as  fast  as  possible  to  Dublin,  where 
my  lady  had  taken  a house  fitting  for  him  as  a member  of 
Parliament,  to  attend  his  duty  in  there  all  the  winter.  I 
was  very  lonely  when  the  whole  family  was  gone,  and  all 
the  things  they  had  ordered  to  go,  and  forgot,  sent  after 
them  by  the  car.  There  was  then  a great  silence  in  Castle 
Rackrent,  and  I went  moping  from  room  to  room,  hearing 
the  doors  clap  for  want  of  right  locks,  and  the  wind 
through  the  broken  windows,  that  the  glazier  never  would 
come  to  mend,  and  the  rain  coming  through  the  roof  and 
best  ceilings  all  over  the  house  for  want  of  the  slater,  whose 
bill  was  not  paid,  besides  our  having  no  slates  or  shingles 
for  that  part  of  the  old  building  which  was  shingled  and 
burnt  when  the  chimney  took  fire,  and  had  been  open  to  the 
weather  ever  since. 


1030 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


I took  myself  to  the  servants’  hall  in  the  evening  to 
smoke  my  pipe  as  usual,  but  missed  the  bit  of  talk  we  used 
to  have  there  sadly,  and  ever  after  was  content  to  stay  in 
the  kitchen  and  boil  my  little  potatoes  and  put  up  my  bed 
there,  and  every  post-day  I looked  in  the  newspaper,  but 
no  news  of  my  master  in  the  House;  he  never  spoke  good 
or  bad,  but,  as  the  butler  wrote  down  word  to  my  son 
Jason,  was  very  ill-used  by  the  Government  about  a place 
that  was  promised  him  and  never  given,  after  his  support- 
ing them  against  his  conscience  very  honorably,  and  being 
greatly  abused  for  it,  which  hurt  him  greatly,  he  having 
the  name  of  a great  patriot  in  the  country  before.  The 
house  and  living  in  Dublin,  too,  were  not  to  be  had  for 
nothing,  and  my  son  Jason  said:  Sir  Condy  must  soon 

be  looking  out  for  a new  agent,  for  I ’ve  done  my  part  and 
can  do  no  more.  If  my  lady  had  the  Bank  of  Ireland  to 
spend,  it  would  go  all  in  one  winter,  and  Sir  Condy  would 
never  gainsay  her,  though  he  does  not  care  the  rind  of  a 
lemon  for  her  all  the  while.” 

Now  I could  not  bear  to  hear  Jason  giving  out  after  this 
manner  against  the  family,  and  twenty  people  standing  by 
in  the  street.  Ever  since  he  had  lived  at  the  Lodge  of  his 
own,  he  looked  down,  howsomever,  upon  poor  old  Thady,^ 
and  was  grown  quite  a great  gentleman,  and  had  none  of* 
his  relations  near  him;  no  wonder  he  was  no  kinder  to  poor 
Sir  Condy  than  to  his  own  kith  or  kin.  In  the  spring  it 
was  the  villain  that  got  the  list  of  the  debts  from  him 
brought  down  the  custodiam.  Sir  Condy  still  attending  his 
duty  in  Parliament;  and  I could  scarcely  believe  my  own 
old  eyes,  or  the  spectacles  with  which  I read  it,  when  I was 
shown  my  son  Jason’s  name  joined  in  the  custodiam,  but  he 
told  me  it  was  only  for  form’s  sake,  and  to  make  things 
easier  than  if  all  the  land  was  under  the  power  of  a total 
stranger.  Well,  I did  not  know  what  to  think;  it  was  hard 
to  be  talking  ill  of  my  own,  and  I couid  not  but  grieve  for 
my  poor  master’s-  fine  estate,  all  torn  by  these  vultures  of 
the  law;  so  I said  nothing,  but  just  looked  on  to  see  how  it 
would  all  end. 

It  was  not  till  the  month  of  June  that  he  and  my  lady 
came  down  to  the  country.  My  master  was  pleased  to  take 
me  aside  with  him  to  the  brewhouse  that  same  evening,  to 
complain  to  me  of  my  son  and  other  matters,  in  which  he 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1031 


said  he  was  confident  I had  neither  art  nor  part ; he  said  a 
great  deal  more  to  me,  to  whom  he  had  been  fond  to  talk 
ever  since  he  was  my  white-headed  boy  before  he  came  to 
the  estate ; and  all  that  he  said  about  poor  J udy  I can  never 
forget,  but  scorn  to  repeat.  He  did  not  say  an  unkind 
word  of  my  lady,  but  wondered,  as  well  he  might,  her  re- 
lations would  do  nothing  for  him  or  her,  and  they  in  all 
this  great  distress.  He  did  not  take  anything  long  to  heart, 
let  it  be  as  it  would,  and  had  no  more  malice  or  thought 
of  the  like  in  him  than  a child  that  can’t  speak ; this  night 
it  was  all  out  of  his  head  before  he  went  to  his  bed. 

He  took  his  jug  of  whisky-punch — my  lady  was  grown 
quite  easy  about  the  whisky-punch  by  this  time,  and  so  I 
did  suppose  all  was  going  on  right  betwixt  them,  till  I 
learnt  the  truth  through  Mrs.  Jane,  who  talked  over  the 
affairs  to  the  housekeeper,  and  I within  hearing.  The 
night  my  master  came  home,  thinking  of  nothing  at  all  but 
just  making  merry,  he  drank  his  bumper  toast  to  the  de- 
serts of  that  old  curmudgeon  my  father-in-law,  and  all  ene- 
mies at  Mount  Juliet’s  Town.”  Now  my  lady  was  no 
longer  in  the  mind  she  formerly  was,  and  did  noways  relish 
hearing  her  own  friends  abused  in  her  presence,  she  said. 

Then  why  don’t  they  show  themselves  your  friends,” 
said  my  master,  and  oblige  me  with  the  loan  of  the  money 
I condescended  by  your  advice,  my  dear,  to  ask?  It ’s  now 
three  posts  since  I sent  off  my  letter,  desiring  in  the  post- 
script a speedy  answer  by  the  return  of  the  post,  and  no 
account  at  all  from  them  yet.” 

“ I expect  they  ’ll  write  to  me  next  post,”  says  my  lady, 
and  that  was  all  that  passed  then;  but  it  was  easy  from 
this  to  guess  there  was  a coolness  betwixt  them,  and  with 
good  cause. 

The  next  morning,  being  post-day,  I sent  off  the  gossoon 
early  to  the  post-office,  to  see  was  there  any  letter  likely  to 
set  matters  to  rights,  and  he  brought  back  one  with  the 
proper  postmark  upon  it,  sure  enough,  and  I had  no  time 
to  examine  or  make  any  conjecture  more  about  it,’  for  into 
the  servants’  hall  pops  Mrs.  Jane  with  a blue  bandbox 
in  her  hand,  quite  entirely  mad. 

Dear  ma’am,  and  what ’s  the  matter?  ” says  I. 

Matter  enough,”  sa^^s  she ; “ don’t  you  see  my  bandbox 
is  wet  through,  and  my  best  bonnet  here  spoiled,  besides 


1032 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


my  lady^s,  and  all  by  the  rain  coming  in  through  that  gal- 
lery window  that  you  might  have  got  mended  if  you  ^d  had 
any  sense,  Thady,  all  the  time  we  were  in  town  in  the 
winter?  ’’ 

Sure,  I could  not  get  the  glazier,  ma’am,’’  says  I. 

You  might  have  stopped  it  up  anyhow,”  says  she. 

So  I did,  ma’am,  to  the  best  of  my  abilit}’ ; one  of  the 
panes  with  the  old  pillow-case,  and  the  other  with  a piece 
of  the  old  stage  green  curtain.  Sure  I was  as  careful  as 
possible  all  the  time  you  were  away,  and  not  a drop  of  rain 
came  in  at  that  window  of  all  the  windows  in  the  house,  all 
Avinter,  ma’am,  when  under  my  care ; and  now  the  family ’s 
come  home,  and  it ’s  summer-time,  I neA^er  thought  no  more 
about  it,  to  be  sure ; but  dear,  it ’s  a pity  to  think  of  your 
bonnet,  ma’am . But  here ’s  what  will  please  you,  ma’am— 
a letter  from  Mount  Juliet’s  ToAvn  for  my  lady.” 

With  that  she  snatches  it  from  me  without  a word  more, 
and  runs  up  the  back  stairs  to  my  mistress ; I follows  with 
a slate  to  make  up  the  window.  This  window  was  in  the 
long  passage,  'or  gallery,  as  my  lady  gave  out  orders  to 
have  it  called,  in  the  gallery  leading  to  my  master’s  bed- 
chamber and  hers.  And  when  I Avent  up  with  the  slate,  the 
door  having  no  lock,  and  the  bolt  spoilt,  was  ajar  after 
Mrs.  Jane,  and,  as  I was  busy  with  the  window,  I heard  all 
that  was  saying  Avithin. 

Well,  Avhat ’s  in  your  letter,  Bella,  my  dear?  ” says  he: 
you  ’re  a long  time  spelling  it  OA^er.” 

“ Won’t  you  shave  this  morning.  Sir  Condy?  ” says  she, 
and  put  the  letter  into  her  pocket. 

I shaved  the  day  before  yesterday,”  said  he,  my  dear, 
and  that ’s  not  what  I ’m  thinking  of  now;  but  anything  to 
oblige  you,  and  to  have  peace  and  quietness,  my  dear  ” — 
and  presently  I had  a glimpse  of  him  at  the  cracked  glass 
over  the  chimney-piece,  standing  up  shaving  himself  to 
please  my  lady.  But  she  took  no  notice,  but  Avent  on  read- 
ing her  book,  and  Mrs.  Jane  doing  her  hair  behind. 

What  is  it  you  ’re  reading  there,  my  dear? — phoo,  I ’ve 
cut  myself  with  this  razor ; the  man ’s  a cheat  that  sold  it 
me,  but  I haA^e  not  paid  him  for  it  yet.  What  is  it  you  ’re 
reading  there?  Did  you  hear  me  asking  you,  my  dear?  ” 

^ The  SorroAvs  of  Werter,’  ” replies  my  lady,  as  well  as 
I could  hear. 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1033 


I think  more  of  the  sorrows  of  Sir  Condy/’  says  my 
master,  iokinff  like.  What  news  from  Mount  Juliet’s 
Town.” 

No  news,”  says  she,  “ but  the  old  story  over  again;  my 
friends  all  reproaching  me  still  for  what  I can’t  help  now.” 
Is  it  for  marrying  me?  ” said  my  master,  still  shaving. 
What  signifies,  as  you  say,  talking  of  that,  when  it  can’t 
be  helped  now?  ” 

With  that  she  heaved  a great  sigh  that  I heard  plain 
enough  in  the  passage. 

And  did  not  you  use  me  basely,  Sir  Condy,”  says  she, 
not  to  tell  me  you  were  ruined  before  I married  you?” 
Tell  you,  my  dear ! ” said  he.  Did  you  ever  ask  me 
one  word  about  it?  And  had  not  you  friends  enough  of 
your  own,  that  were  telling  you  nothing  else  from  morning 
to  night,  if  you ’d  have  listened  to  them  slanders?  ” 

No  slanders,  nor  are  my  friends  slanderers;  and  I can’t 
bear  to  hear  them  treated  with  disrespect  as  I do,”  says  my 
lady,  and  took  out  her  pocket-handkerchief ; they  are  the 
best  of  friends,  and  if  I had  taken  their  advice — But  my 
father  was  wrong  to  lock  me  up,  I own.  That  was  the  only 
unkind  thing  I can  charge  him  with;  for  if  he  had  not 
locked  me  up,  I should  never  have  had  a serious  thought  of 
running  away  as  I did.” 

Well,  my  dear,”  said  my  master,  don’t  cry  and  make 
yourself  uneasy  about  it  now,  when  it ’s  all  over,  and  you 
have  the  man  of  your  own  choice,  in  spite  of  ’em  all.” 

I was  too  young,  I know,  to  make  a choice  at  the  time 
you  ran  away  with  me,  I ’m  sure,”  says  my  lady,  and  an- 
other sigh,  which  made  my  master,  half-shaved  as  he  was, 
turn  round  upon  her  in  surprise. 

Why,  Bell,”  says  he,  you  can’t  deny  what  you  know 
as  well  as  I do,  that  it  was  at  your  own  particular  desire, 
and  that  twice  under  your  own  hand  and  seal  expressed, 
that  I should  carry  you  off  as  I did  to  Scotland,  and  marry 
you  there.” 

Well,  say  no  more  about  it.  Sir  Condy,”  said  my  lady, 
pettish-like;  I was  a child  then,  you  know.” 

And  as  far  as  I know,  you  ’re  little  better  now,  my  dear 
Bella,  to  be  talking  in  this  manner  to  your  husband’s  face; 
but  I won’t  take  it  ill  of  you,  for  I know  it ’s  something  in 
that  letter  you  put  into  your  pocket  just  now  that  has  set 


1034 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


you  against  me  all  on  a sudden,  and  imposed  upon  your 
understanding.’’ 

It ’s  not  so  very  easy  as  you  think  it,  Sir  Condy,  to  im- 
pose upon  my  understanding,”  said  my  lady. 

My  dear,”  says  be,  I have,  and  with  reason  the  best 
opinion  of  your  understanding  of  any  man  now  breathing; 
and  you  know  I have  never  set  my  own  in  competition  with 
it  till  now,  my  dear  Bella,”  says  he,  taking  her  hand  from 
her  book  as  kind  as  could  be — till  now,  when  I have  the 
great  advantage  of  being  quite  cool,  and  you  not ; so  don’t 
believe  one  word  your  friends  say  against  your  own  Sir 
Condy,  and  lend  me  the  letter  out  of  your  pocket,  till  I see 
what  it  is  they  can  have  to  say.” 

Take  it  then,”  says  she ; “ and  as  you  are  quite  cool, 
I hope  it  is  a proper  time  to  request  you  ’ll  allow  me  to 
comply  with  the  wishes  of  all  my  own  friends,  and  return 
to  live  with  my  father  and  family,  during  the  remainder  of 
my  wretched  existence,  at  Mount  Juliet’s  Town.” 

At  this  my  poor  master  fell  back  a few  paces,  like  one 
that  had  been  shot. 

You ’re  not  serious,  Bella,”  says  he;  and  could  you 
find  it  in  your  heart  to  leave  me  this  way  in  the  very  middle 
of  my  distresses,  all  alone?  ” But  recollecting  himself 
after  his  first  surprise,  and  a moment’s  time  for  reflection, 
he  said,  with  a great  deal  of  consideration  for  my  lady: 
Well,  Bella,  my  dear,  I believe  you  are  right ; for  what 
could  you  do  at  Castle  Backrent,  and  an  execution  against 
the  goods  coming  down,  and  the  furniture  to  be  canted,  and 
an  auction  in  the  house  all  next  week?  So  you  have  my 
full  consent  to  go,  since  that  is  your  desire;  only  you  must 
not  think  of  my  accompanying  you,  which  I could  not  in 
honor  do  upon  the  terms  I always  have  been,  since  our 
marriage,  with  your  friends.  Besides,  I have  business  to 
transact  at  home;  so  in  the  meantime,  if  we  are  to  have  any 
breakfast  this  morning,  let  us  go  down  and  have  it  for  the 
last  time  in  peace  and  comfort,  Bella.” 

Tlien  as  I heard  my  master  coming  to  the  passage  door, 
I finished  fastening  up  my  slate  against  the  broken  pane; 
and  when  he  came  out  I wiped  down  the  Avindow-seat  with 
my  Avig,  and  bade  him  a good  morrow  ” as  kindly  as  I 
could,  seeing  he  was  in  trouble,  though  he  strove  and 
thought  to  hide  it  from  me. 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1035 


This  window  is  all  racked  and  tattered/^  says  I,  and 
it ’s  what  I striving  to  mend.” 

It  is  all  racked  and  tattered,  plain  enough,”  says  he, 
and  never  mind  mending  it,  honest  old  Thady,”  says  he ; 
it  will  do  well  enough  for  you  and  I,  and  that ’s  all  the 
company  we  shall  have  left  in  the  house  by-and-by.” 

I ’m  sorry  to  see  your  honor  so  low  this  morning,”  says 
I;  but  you  T1  be  better  after  taking  your  breakfast.” 

Step  down  to  the  servants^  hall,”  said  he,  and  bring 
me  up  the  pen  and  ink  into  the  parlor,  and  get  a sheet  of 
paper  from  Mrs.  Jane,  for  I have  business  that  canT  brook 
to  be  delayed;  and  come  into  the  parlor  with  the  pen  and 
ink  yourself,  Thady,  for  I must  have  you  to  witness  my 
signing  a paper  I have  to  execute  in  a hurry.” 

Well,  while  I was  getting  of  the  pen  and  ink-horn,  and 
the  sheet  of  paper,  I ransacked  my  brains  to  think  what 
could  be  the  papers  my  poor  master  could  have  to  execute 
in  such  a hurry,  he  that  never  thought  of  such  a thing  as 
doing  business  afore  breakfast  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
life,  for  any  man  living;  but  this  was  for  my  lady,  as  I 
afterwards  found,  and  the  more  genteel  of  him  after  all  her 
treatment. 

I was  just  witnessing  the  paper  that  he  had  scrawled 
over,  and  was  shaking  the  ink  out  of  my  pen  upon  the  car- 
pet, when  my  lady  came  in  to  breakfast,  and  she  started  as 
if  it  had  been  a ghost ; as  well  she  might,  when  she  saw  Sir 
Condy  writing  at  this  unseasonable  hour. 

That  will  do  very  well,  Thady,”  says  he  to  me,  and  took 
the  paper  I had  signed  to,  without  knowing  what  upon  the 
earth  it  might  be,  out  of  my  hands,  and  walked,  folding  it 
up,  to  my  lady. 

You  are  concerned  in  this,  my  Lady  Rackrent,”  said  he, 
putting  it  into  her  hands;  and  I beg  you  J1  keep  this 
memorandum  safe,  and  show  it  to  your  friends  the  first 
thing  you  do  when  you  get  home ; but  put  it  in  your  pocket 
now,  my  dear,  and  let  us  eat  our  breakfast,  in  God^s  name.” 
What  is  all  this?  ” said  my  lady,  opening  the  paper  in 
great  curiosity. 

It ’s  only  a bit  of  a memorandum  of  what  I think  be- 
comes me  to  do  whenever  I am  able,”  says  my  master ; you 
know  my  situation,  tied  hand  and  foot  at  the  present  time 
being,  but  that  can^t  last  always,  and  when  I ^m  dead  and 


1036 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


gone  the  land  will  be  to  the  good,  Thady,  you  know ; and 
take  notice  it  my  intention  your  lady  should  have  a clear 
five  hundred  a year  jointure  oft  the  estate  afore  any  of  my 
debts  are  paid.’^ 

Oh,  please  your  honor,’’  says  I,  I can’t  expect  to  live 
to  see  that  time,  being  now  upwards  of  fourscore  years  of 
age,  and  you  a young  man,  and  likely  to  continue  so  by  the 
help  of  God.” 

I was  vexed  to  see  my  lady  so  insensible,  too,  for  all  she 
said  was : This  is  very  genteel  of  you.  Sir  Condy.  You 

need  not  wait  any  longer,  Thady.”  So  I just  picked  up  the 
pen  and  ink  that  had  tumbled  on  the  floor,  and  heard  my 
master  flnish  with  saying : You  behaved  very  genteel  to 

me,  my  dear,  when  you  threw  all  the  little  you  had  in  your 
power  along  with  yourself  into  my  hands;  and  as  I don’t 
deny  but  what  you  may  have  had  some  things  to  complain 
of  ” — to  be  sure  he  was  thinking  then  of  Judy  or  of  the 
whisky-punch,  one  or  t’  other,  or  both, — and  as  I don’t 
deny  but  }^ou  may  have  had  something  to  complain  of,  my 
dear,  it  is  but  fair  you  should  have  something  in  the  form 
of  compensation  to  look  forAvard  to  agreeably  in  the  future ; 
besides,  it ’s  an  act  of  justice  to  myself,  that  none  of  your 
friends,  my  dear,  may  ever  have  it  to  say  against  me,  I 
married  for  money,  and  not  for  love.” 

That  is  the  last  thing  I should  ever  have  thought  of 
saying  of  you,  Sir  Condy,”  said  my  lady,  looking  very 
gracious. 

Then,  my  dear,”  said  Sir  Condy,  we  shall  part  as 
good  friends  as  Ave  met;  so  all ’s  right.” 

I was  greatly  rejoiced  to  hear  this,  and  went  out  of  the 
parlor  to  report  it  all  to  the  kitchen.  The  next  morning 
my  lady  and  Mrs.  Jane  set  out  for  Mount  Juliet’s  Town  in 
the  jaunting'car.  Many  Avondered  at  my  lady’s  choosing 
to  go  away,  considering  all  things,  upon  the  jaunting-car, 
as  if  it  was  only  a party  of  pleasure ; but  they  did  not  know 
till  I told  them  that  the  coach  was  all  broke  in  the  journey 
down,  and  no  other  vehicle  but  the  car  to  be  had.  Besides, 
my  lady’s  friends  were  to  send  their  coach  to  meet  her  at 
the  cross-roads ; so  it  was  all  done  very  proper. 

My  poor  master  was  in  great  trouble  after  my  lady  left 
us.  The  execution  came  down,  and  everything  at  Castle 
Rackrent  was  seized  by  the  gripers,  and  my  son  Jason,  to 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1037 


his  shame  be  it  spoken,  amongst  them.  I wondered,  for 
the  life  of  me,  how  he  could  harden  himself  to  do  it;  but 
then  he  had  been  studying  the  law,  and  had  made  himself 
Attorney  Quirk ; so  he  brought  down  at  once  a heap  of  ac- 
counts upon  my  master’s  head.  To  cash  lent,  and  to  ditto, 
and  to  ditto,  and  to  ditto,  and  oats,  and  bills  paid  at  mil- 
liner’s and  linen-draper’s,  and  many  dresses  for  the 
fancy  balls  in  Dublin  for  my  lady,  and  all  the  bills  to  the 
workmen  and  tradesmen  for  the  scenery  of  the  theater, 
and  the  chandler’s  and  grocer’s  bills,  and  tailor’s,  besides 
butcher’s  and  baker’s  and,  worse  than  all,  the  old  one  of 
that  base  wine  merchant’s  who  wanted  to  arrest  my  poor 
master  for  the  amount  on  the  election  day,  for  which 
amount  Sir  Condy  afterwards  passed  his  note  of  hand, 
bearing  lawful  interest  from  the  date  thereof;  and  the 
interest  and  compound  interest  was  now  mounted  to  a 
terrible  deal  on  many  other  notes  and  bonds  for  money 
borrowed,  and  there  was,  besides,  hush-money  to  the  sub- 
sheriffs, and  sheets  upon  sheets  of  old  and  new  attorneys’ 
bills,  with  heavy  balances,  “ as  per  former  account  fur- 
nished,” brought  forward  with  interest  thereon ; then  there 
was  a powerful  deal  due  to  the  Crown  for  sixteen  years’ 
arrear  of  quit-rent  of  the  townlands  of  Carrickshauglilin, 
with  driver’s  fees,  and  a compliment  to  the  receiver  every 
year  for  letting  the  quit-rent  run  on  to  oblige  Sir  Condy, 
and  Sir  Kit  afore  him. 

Then  there  were  bills  for  spirits  and  ribbons  at  the  elec- 
tion time,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  committee’s  accounts 
unsettled,  and  their  subscription  never  gathered;  and 'there 
were  cows  to  be  paid  for,  with  the  smith  and  farrier’s  bills 
to  be  set  against  the  rent  of  the  demesne,  with  calf  and  hay 
money ; then  there  was  all  the  servants’  wages,  since  I don’t 
know  when,  coming  due  to  them,  and  sums  advanced  for 
them  by  my  son  Jason  for  clothes,  and  boots,  and  whips, 
and  odd  moneys  for  sundries  expended  by  them  in  journeys 
to  town  and  elsewhere,  and  pocket-money  for  the  master 
continually,  and  messengers  and  postage  before  his  being 
a Parliament  man.  I can’t  myself  tell  you  what  besides; 
but  this  I know,  that  when  the  evening  came  on  the  which 
Sir  Condy  had  appointed  to  settle  all  with  my  son  Jason, 
and  when  he  comes  into  the  parlor,  and  sees  the  sight  of 
bills  and  load  of  papers  all  gathered  on  the  great  dining- 


1038 


IRISH  LITERATVRE, 


table  for  him,  he  puts  his  hands  before  both  his  eys,  and 
cried  out,  Merciful  Jasus!  what  is  it  I see  before  me? 
Then  I sets  an  arm-chair  at  the  table  for  him,  and  with  a 
deal  of  difficulty  he  sits  him  down,  and  my  son  Jason  hands 
him  over  the  pen  and  ink  to  sign  to  this  man’s  bill  and 
t’  other  man’s  bill,  all  of  which  he  did  without  making  the 
least  objections.  Indeed,  to  give  him  his  due,  I never  seen 
a man  more  fair  and  honest,  and  easy  in  all  his  dealings, 
from  first  to  last,  as  Sir  Condy,  or  more  willing  to  pay  every 
man  his  own  as  far  as  he  was  able,  which  is  as  much  as  any 
one  can  do. 

Well,”  says  he,  joking-like  with  Jason,  I wish  we 
could  settle  it  all  with  a stroke  of  my  gray  goose-quill. 
What  signifies  making  me  Avade  through  all  this  ocean  of 
papers  here;  can’t  you  now,  Avho  understand  drawing  out 
an  account,  debtor  and  creditor,  just  sit  down  here  at  the 
corner  of  the  table  and  get  it  done  out  for  me,  that  I may  - 
have  a clear  view  of  the  balance,  Avhich  is  all  I need  be 
talking  about,  you  know?  ” 

Very  true.  Sir  Condy ; nobody  understands  business 
better  than  yourself,”  says  Jason. 

So  I ’ve  a right  to  do,  being  born  and  bred  to  the  bar,” 
says  Sir  Condy.  Thady,  do  step  out  and  see  are  they 
bringing  in  the  things  for  the  punch,  for  we ’ve  just  done 
all  we  have  to  do  for  this  evening.” 

I goes  out  accordingly^,  and  when  I came  back  Jason  was 
pointing  to  the  balance,  which  was  a terrible  sight  to  my 
poor  master. 

Pooh ! pooh ! pooh ! ” says  he.  “ Here ’s  so  many 
noughts  they  dazzle  my  eyes,  so  they  do,  and  put  me  in  mind 
of  all  I suffered  laming  of  my  numeration  table  when  I 
was  a boy  at  the  day  school  along  Avith  you,  Jason — units, 
tens,  hundreds,  tens  of  hundreds.  Is  the  punch  ready, 
Thady?  ” says  he,  seeing  me. 

‘‘Immediately;  the  boy  has  the  jug  in  his  hand;  it’s 
coming  upstairs,  please  your  honor,  as  fast  as  possible,” 
says  I,  for  I saw  his  honor  Avas  tired  out  of  his  life;  but 
Jason,  very  short  and  cruel,  cuts  me  off  with — “ Don’t  be 
talking  of  punch  yet  awhile ; it ’s  no  time  for  punch  yet  a 
bit — units,  tens,  hundreds,”  goes  he  on,  counting  over  the 
master’s  shoulder,  “ units,  tens,  hundreds,  thousands.” 

“ A-a-ah ! hold  your  hand,”  cries  my  master.  “ Where 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1039 


in  this  wide  world  am  I to  find  hundreds,  or  units  itself,  let 
alone  thousands? 

The  balance  has  been  running  on  too  long,’’  says  Jason, 
sticking  to  him  as  I could  not  have  done  at  the  time  if  you ’d 
have  given  both  the  Indies  and  Cork  to  boot;  the  balance 
has  been  running  on  too  long,  and  I ’m  distressed  myself 
on  your  account.  Sir  Condy,  for  money,  and  the  thing  must 
be  settled  now  on  the  spot,  and  the  balance  cleared  off,” 
says  Jason. 

I ’ll  thank  you  if  you  ’ll  only  show  me  how,”  says  Sir 
Condy. 

There ’s  but  one  way,”  says  Jason,  and  that ’s  ready 
enough.  When  there ’s  no  cash,  what  can  a gentleman  do 
but  go  to  the  land?  ” 

How  can  you  go  to  the  land,  and  it  under  custodian! 
to  yourself  already?”  says  Sir  Condy;  and  another  cus- 
todiam  hanging  over  it?  And  no  one  at  all  can  touch  it, 
you  know,  but  the  custodees.” 

Sure,  can’t  you  sell,  though  at  a loss?  Sure  you  can 
sell,  and  I ’ve  a purchaser  ready  for  you,”  says  Jason. 

Have  you  so?  ” says  Sir  Condy.  That ’s  a great  point 
gained.  But  there ’s  a thing  now  beyond  all,  that  perhaps 
you  don’t  know  yet,  barring  Thady  has  let  you  into  the 
secret.” 

Sarrah  bit  of  a secret,  or  anything  at  all  of  the  kind, 
has  he  learned  from  me  these  fifteen  weeks  come  St.  John’s 
Eve,”  says  I,  “ for  we  have  scarce  been  upon  speaking  terms 
of  late.  But  what  is  it  your  honor  means  of  a secret?  ” 
“ Why,  the  secret  of  the  little  keepsake  I gave  my  Lady 
Rackrent  the  morning  she  left  us,  that  she  might  not  go 
back  empty-handed  to  her  friends.” 

My  Lady  Rackrent,  I ’m  sure,  has  baubles  and  keep- 
sakes enough,  as  those  bills  on  the  table  will  show,”  says 
Jason;  but  whatever  it  is,”  says  he,  taking  up  his  pen, 
we  must  add  it  to  the  balance,  for  to  be  sure  it  can’t  be 
paid  for.  ” 

No,  nor  can’t  till  after  my  decease,”  says  Sir  Condy; 
that ’s  one  good  thing.”  Then  coloring  up  a good  deal, 
he  tells  Jason  of  the  memorandum  of  the  five-hundred-a- 
year  jointure  he  had  settled  upon  my  lady ; at  which  Jason 
was  indeed  mad,  and  said  a great  deal  in  very  high  words, 
that  it  was  using  a gentleman  who  had  the  management  of 


1040 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


his  affairs,  and  was,  moreover,  his  principal  creditor,  ex- 
tremely ill  to  do  such  a thing  without  consulting  him,  and 
against  his  knowledge  and  consent.  To  all  which  Sir 
Condy  had  nothing  to  reply,  but  that,  upon  his  conscience, 
it  was  in  a hurry  and  without  a moment^s  thought  on  his 
part,  and  he  was  very  sorry  for  it,  but  if  it  was  to  do 
over  again  he  would  do  the  same ; and  he  appealed  to  me, 
and  I was  ready  to  give  my  evidence,  if  that  would  do,  to 
the  truth  of  all  he  said. 

So  Jason,  with  much  ado,  was  brought  to  agree  to  a com- 
promise. 

The  purchaser  that  I have  ready,”  says  he,  will  be 
much  displeased,  to  be  sure,  at  the  incumbrance  on  the 
land,  but  I must  see  and  manage  him.  Here  ^s  a deed  ready 
drawn  up;  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  put  in  the  con- 
sideration money  and  our  names  to  it.” 

And  how  much  am  I going  to  sell? — the  lands  of 
O’Shaughlin’s  Town,  and  the  lands  of  Gruneaghoolaghan, 
and  the  lands  of  Crookagnawaturgh,”  says  he,  just  reading 
to  himself.  And — oh,  murder,  Jason ! sure  you  won’t 

put  this  in — the  castle,  stable,  and  appurtenances  of  Castle 
Kackrent?  ” 

Oh,  murder!  ” says  I,  clapping  my  hands;  this  is  too 
bad,  Jason.” 

‘‘Why  so?”  said  Jason.  “When  it’s  all,  and  a good 
deal  more  to  the  back  of  it,  lawfully  mine,  was  I to  push  for 
it?” 

“ Look  at  him,”  says  I,  pointing  to  Sir  Condy,  who  was 
just  leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  arms  falling 
beside  him  like  one  stupefied ; “ is  it  you,  Jason,  that  can 
stand  in  his  presence,  and  recollect  all  he  has  been  to  us, 
and  all  that  we  have  been  to  him,  and  yet  use  him  so  at  the 
last?  ” 

“ Who  will  you  find  to  use  him  better,  I ask  you?  ” said 
Jason;  “if  he  can  get  a better  purchaser,  I’m  content; 
I only  offer  to  purchase,  to  make  things  easy,  and  oblige 
him;  though  I don’t  see  what  compliment  I am  undei’,  if 
you  come  to  that.  I have  never  had,  asked,  or  charged 
more  than  sixpence  in  the  pound,  receiver’s  fees,  and  where 
would  he  have  got  an  agent  for  a penny  less?  ” 

“ Oh,  Jason ! Jason ! how  will  you  stand  to  this  in  the 
face  of  the  county,  and  all  who  know  you?  ” says  I;  “ and 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1041 


what  will  people  think  and  sa^^  when  they  see  you  living 
here  in  Castle  Rackrent,  and  the  lawful  owner  turned  out 
of  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  without  a cabin  to  put  his  head 
into,  or  so  much  as  a potato  to  eat?  ’’ 

Jason,  whilst  I was  saying  this  and  a great  deal  more, 
made  me  signs,  and  winks,  and  frowns;  but  I took  no  heed, 
for  I was  grieved  and  sick  at  heart  for  my  poor  master,  and 
couldn’t  but  speak. 

Here’s  the  punch,”  says  Jason,  for  the  door  opened; 
here ’s  the  punch ! ” 

Hearing  that,  my  master  starts  up  in  his  chair,  and 
recollects  himself,  and  Jason  uncorks  the  whisky. 

Set  down  the  jug  here,”  says  he,  making  room  for  it 
beside  the  papers  opposite  to  Sir  Condy,  but  still  not  stir- 
ring the  deed  that  was  to  make  over  all. 

Well,  I was  in  great  hopes  he  had  some  touch  of  mercy 
about  him  when  I saw  him  making  the  punch,  and  my 
master  took  a glass;  but  Jason  put  it  back  as  he  was  going 
to  fill  again,  sajdng:  No,  Sir  Condy,  it  sha’n’t  be  said 

of  me  I got  your  signature  to  this  deed  when  you  were 
half  seas  over;  you  know  your  name  and  handwriting  in 
that  condition  would  not,  if  brought  before  the  courts, 
benefit  me  a straw;  wherefore,  let  us  settle  all  before  we  go 
deeper  into  the  punch-bowl.” 

Settle  all  as  you  will,”  said  Sir  Condy,  clapping  his 
hands  to  his  ears ; but  let  me  hear  no  more.  I ’m  bothered 
to  death  this  night.” 

^‘You’ve  only  to  sign,”  said  Jason,  putting  the  pen  to 
him. 

“ Take  all,  and  be  content,”  said  my  master.  So  he 
signed;  and  the  man  who  brought  in  the  punch  witnessed 
it,  for  I was  not  able,  but  crying  like  a child;  and  besides, 
Jason  said,  which  I was  glad  of,  that  I was  no  fit  witness, 
being  so  old  and  doting.  It  was  so  bad  with  me,  I could 
not  taste  a drop  of  the  punch  itself,  though  my  master 
himself,  God  bless  him!  in  the  midst  of  his  trouble,  poured 
out  a glass  for  me,  and  brought  it  up  to  my  lips. 

Not  a drop;  I thank  your  honor’s  honor  as  much  as  if 
I took  it,  though.”  And  I just  set  down  the  glass  as  it  was, 
and  went  out,  and  when  I got  to  the  street  door  the  neigh- 
bor’s childer,  who  were  playing  at  marbles  there,  seeing  me 
in  great  trouble,  left  their  play,  and  gathered  about  me  to 


1042 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


know  what  ailed  me;  and  I told  them  all,  for  it  was  a great 
relief  to  me  to  speak  to  these  poor  childer,  that  seemed  to 
have  some  natural  feeling  left  in  them;  and  when  they 
were  made  sensible  that  Sir  Condy  was  going  to  leave 
Castle  Rackrent  for  good  and  all,  they  set  up  a whillalu 
that  could  be  heard  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  street;  and 
one — fine  boy  he  was — that  my  master  had  given  an  apple 
to  that  morning,  cried  the  loudest;  but  they  all  were  the 
same  sorry,  for  Sir  Condy  was  greatly  beloved  amongst  the 
childer,  for  letting  them  go  a-nutting  in  the  demesne,  with- 
out saying  a word  to  them,  though  my  lady  objected  to 
them.  The  people  in  the  town,  who  were  the  most  of  tliem 
standing  at  their  doors,  hearing  the  childer  cry,  would 
know  the  reason  of  it;  and  when  the  report  was  made 
known,  the  people  one  and  all  gathered  in  great  anger 
against  my  son  Jason,  and  terror  at  the  notion  of  his  com- 
ing to  be  landlord  over  them,  and  they  cried:  No  Jason! 

no  Jason ! Sir  Condy ! Sir  Condy ! Sir  Condy  Rackrent  for- 
ever ! ’’ 

And  the  mob  grew  so  great  and  so  loud,  I was  frightened, 
and  made  my  way  back  to  the  house  to  warn  my  son  to 
make  his  escape  or  hide  himself  for  fear  of  the  conse- 
quences. Jason  would  not  believe  me  till  they  came  all 
round  the  house,  and  to  the  windows,  with  great  shouts. 
Then  he  grew  quite  pale,  and  asked  Sir  Condy  what  had  he 
best  do? 

“ I ’ll  tell  you  what  you  had  best  do,”  said  Sir  Condy, 
who  was  laughing  to  see  his  fright;  ^‘finish  your  glass 
first,  then  let ’s  go  to  the  window  and  show  ourselves,  and 
I ’ll  tell  ’em — or  you  shall,  if  you  please — that  I ’m  going 
to  the  Lodge  for  change  of  air  for  my  health,  and  by  my 
own  desire,  for  the  rest  of  my  days.” 

“ Do  so,”  said  Jason,  who  never  meant  it  should  have 
been  so,  but  could  not  refuse  him  the  Lodge  at  this  un- 
seasonable time.  Accordingly,  Sir  Condy  threw  up  the 
sash  and  explained  matters,  and  thanked  all  his  friends, 
and  bid  them  look  in  at  the  punch-bowl,  and  observe  that 
Jason  and  he  had  been  sitting  over  it  very  good  friends; 
so  the  mob  was  content,  and  he  sent  them  out  some  whisky 
to  drink  his  health,  and  that  was  the  last  time  his  honor’s 
health  was  ever  drunk  at  Castle  Rackrent. 

The  very  next  day,  being  too  proud,  as  he  said  to  me,  to 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1043 


stay  an  hour  longer  in  a house  that  did  not  belong  to  him, 
he  sets  off  to  the  Lodge,  and  I along  with  him  not  many 
hours  after.  And  there  was  great  bemoaning  through  all 
O’Shauglin’s  Town,  which  I stayed  to  witness,  and  gave 
my  poor  master  a full  account  of  when  I got  to  the  Lodge. 
He  was  very  low,  and  in  his  bed  when  I got  there,  and  com- 
plained of  a great  pain  about  his  heart;  but  I guessed  it 
was  only  trouble  and  all  the  business,  let  alone  vexation, 
he  had  gone  through  of  late,  and  knowing  the  nature  of 
him  from  a boy,  I took  my  pipe,  and  whilst  smoking  it  by 
the  chimney  began  telling  him  how  he  was  beloved  and 
regretted  in  the  county,  and  it  did  him  a deal  of  good  to 
hear  it. 

Your  honor  has  a great  many  friends  yet  that  you  don^t 
know  of,  rich  and  poor,  in  the  county,^^  says  I ; for  as  I 
was  coming  along  the  road  I met  two  gentlemen  in  their 
own  carriages,  who  asked  after  you,  knowing  me,  and 
wanted  to  know  where  you  was  and  all  about  you,  and 
even  how  old  I was.  Think  of  that.’’ 

Then  he  wakened  out  of  his  doze  and  began  questioning 
me  who  the  gentlemen  were.  And  the  next  morning  it 
came  into  my  head  to  go,  unknown  to  anybody,  with  my 
master’s  compliments,  round  to  many  of  the  gentlemen’s 
houses  where  he  and  my  lady  used  to  visit,  and  people  that 
I knew  were  his  great  friends,  and  would  go  to  Cork  to 
serve  him  any  day  in  the  year,  and  I made  bold  to  try  to 
borrow  a trifle  of  cash  from  them.  They  all  treated  me 
very  civil  for  the  most  part,  and  asked  a great  many  ques- 
tions very  kind  about  my  lady  and  Sir  Condy  and  all  the 
family,  and  were  greatly  surprised  to  learn  from  me  Castle 
Rackrent  was  sold,  and  my  master  at  the  Lodge  for  health ; 
and  they  all  pitied  him  greatly,  and  he  had  their  good 
wishes,  if  that  would  do;  but  money  was  a thing  they  un- 
fortunately had  not  any  of  them  at  this  time  to  spare. 
I had  my  journey  for  my  pains,  and  I,  not  used  to  walk- 
ing, nor  supple  as  formerly,  was  greatly  tired,  but  had  the 
satisfaction  of  telling  my  master  when  I got  to  the  Lodge 
all  the  civil  things  said  by  high  and  low. 

“ Thady,”  says  he,  all  you ’ve  been  telling  me  brings 
a strange  thought  into  my  head.  I ’ve  a notion  I shall  not 
be  long  for  this  world  anyhow,  and  I ’ve  a great  fancy  to 
see  my  own  funeral  afore  I die.”  I was  greatly  shocked,  at 


1044 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


the  first  speaking,  to  hear  him  speak  so  light  about  his 
funeral,  and  he  to  all  appearance  in  good  health ; but  recol- 
lecting myself,  answered : 

To  be  sure  it  would  be  as  fine  a sight  as  one  could  see,’^ 
I dared  to  say,  and  one  1 should  be  proud  to  witness,  and 
I did  not  doubt  his  honor’s  would  be  as  great  a funeral 
as  ever  Sir  Patrick  O’Shaughlin’s  was,  and  such  a one  as 
that  had  never  been  known  in  the  county  afore  or  since.” 
But  I never  thought  he  was  in  earnest  about  seeing  his  own 
funeral  himself  till  the  next  day  he  returns  to  it  again. 

“ Thady,”  says  he,  “ as  far  as  the  wake  goes,  sure  I 
might  without  any  great  trouble  have  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  a bit  of  my  own  funeral.” 

Well,  since  your  honor’s  honor ’s  so  bent  upon  it,”  says 
I,  not  willing  to  cross  him,  and  he  in  trouble,  we  must 
see  what  we  can  do.” 

So  he  fell  into  a sort  of  sham  disorder,  which  was  easy 
done,  as  he  kept  his  bed,  and  no  one  to  see  him ; and  I got 
my  shister,  who  was  an  old  woman  very  handy  about  the 
sick,  and  very  skillful,  to  come  up  to  the  Lodge  to  nurse 
him;  and  we  gave  out,  she  knowing  no  better,  that  he  was 
just  at  his  latter  end,  and  it  answered  beyond  anything; 
and  there  was  a great  throng  of  people,  men,  women,  and 
childer,  and  there  being  only  two  rooms  at  the  Lodge, 
except  what  was  locked  up  full  of  Jason’s  furniture  and 
things,  the  house  was  soon  as  full  and  fuller  than  it  could 
hold,  and  the  heat,  and  smoke,  and  noise  wonderful  great ; 
and  standing  amongst  them  that  were  near  the  bed,  but  not 
thinking  at  all  of  the  dead,  I was  startled  by  the  sound  of 
my  master’s  voice  from  under  the  greatcoats  that  had  been 
thrown  all  at  top,  and  I went  close  up,  no  one  noticing. 

“ Thady,”  says  he,  I ’ve  had  enough  of  this ; I ’m  smoth- 
ering, and  can’t  hear  a word  of  all  they  ’re  saying  of  the 
deceased.” 

God  bless  you,  and  lie  still  and  quiet,”  says  I,  a bit 
longer,  for  my  shister ’s  afraid  of  ghosts,  and  would  die  on 
the  spot  with  fright  was  she  to  see  you  come  to  life  all  on 
a sudden  this  way  without  the  least  preparation.” 

So  he  lays  him  still,  though  wellnigh  stified,  and  I made 
all  haste  to  tell  the  secret  of  the  joke,  whispering  to  one 
and  t’  other,  and  there  was  a great  surprise,  but  not  so 
great  as  we  had  laid  out  it  would.  And  aren’t  we  to 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1045 


have  the  pipes  and  tobacco,  after  coming  so  far  to-night? 
said  some;  but  they  were  all  well  enough  pleased  when  his 
honor  got  up  to  drink  with  them,  and  sent  for  more  spirits 
from  a shebeenhouse,  where  they  very  civilly  let  him  have 
it  upon  credit.  So  the  night  passed  off  very  merrily,  but 
to  my  mind  Sir  Condy  was  rather  upon  the  sad  order  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  not  finding  there  had  been  such  a great  talk 
about  himself  after  his  death  as  he  had  always  expected 
to  hear. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  house  was  cleared  of  them, 
and  none  but  my  shister  and  myself  left  in  the  kitchen  with 
Sir  Condy,  one  opens  the  door  and  walks  in,  and  who 
should  it  be  but  Judy  M’Quirk  herself!  I forgot  to  notice 
that  she  had  been  married  long  since,  whilst  young  Cap- 
tain Moneygawl  lived  in  the  Lodge,  to  the  cap  taints  hunts- 
man, who  after  a whilst  ’listed  and  left  her,  and  was  killed 
in  the  wars.  Poor  Judy  fell  oft  greatly  in  her  good  looks 
after  her  being  married  a year  or  two;  and  being  smoke- 
dried  in  the  cabin,  and  neglecting  herself  like,  it  was  hard 
for  Sir  Condy  himself  to  know  her  again  till  she  spoke;  but 
when  she  says,  It ’s  Judy  M’Quirk,  please  your  honor; 
don’t  you  remember  her?  ” 

Oh,  Judy,  is  it  you?”  says  his  honor.  Yes,  sure, 
I remember  you  very  well ; but  you  ’re  greatly  altered, 
Judy.” 

“ Sure  it ’s  time  for  me,”  says  she,  and  I think  your 
honor,  since  I seen  you  last — but  that ’s  a great  while  ago 
— is  altered  too.” 

And  with  reason,  Judy,”  says  Sir  Condy,  fetching  a 
sort  of  a sigh.  But  how ’s  this,  Judy?  ” he  goes  on.  I 
take  it  a little  amiss  of  you  that  you  were  not  at  my  wake 
last  night.”  ^ 

Ah,  don^t  be  being  jealous  of  that,”  says  she ; I didn’t 
hear  a sentence  of  your  honor’s  wake  till  it  was  all  over, 
or  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  me  but  I would  been  at  it, 
sure ; but  I was  forced  to  go  ten  miles  up  the  country  three 
days  ago  to  a wedding  of  a relation  of  my  own’s,  and  didn’t 
get  home  till  after  the  wake  was  over.  But,”  says  she,  it 
won’t  be  so,  I hope,  the  next  time,  please  your  honor.” 

“ That  we  shall  see,  Judy,”  says  his  honor,  and  maybe 
sooner  than  you  think  for,  for  I ’ve  been  very  unwell  this 


1046 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


while  past,  and  don’t  reckon  anyway  I ’m  long  for  this 
world.” 

At  this  Judy  takes  up  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  puts 
it  first  to  one  eye  and  then  to  t’  other,  being  to  all  appear- 
ance in  great  trouble;  and  my  shister  put  in  her  word,  and 
bid  his  honor  have  a good  heart,  for  she  was  sure  it  was 
only  the  gout  that  Sir  Patrick  used  to  have  flying  about 
him,  and  he  ought  to  drink  a glass  or  a bottle  extraordinary 
to  keep  it  out  of  his  stomach ; and  he  promised  to  take  her 
advice,  and  sent  out  for  more  spirits  immediately;  and 
Judy  made  a sign  to  me,  and  I went  over  to  the  door  to 
her,  and  she  said : “ I wonder  to  see  Sir  Condy  so  low ; has 
he  heard  the  news?  ” 

What  news?  ” says  I. 

Didn’t  ye  hear  it,  then?  ” says  she;  my  Lady  Rack- 
rent  that  was  is  kilt  and  lying  for  dead,  and  I don’t  doubt 
but  it ’s  all  over  with  her  by  this  time.” 

Mercy  on  us  all,”  says  I;  how  was  it?  ” 

The  jaunting-car  it  was  that  ran  away  with  her,”  says 
Judy.  1 was  coming  home  that  same  time  from  Biddy 
M’Guggin’s  marriage,  and  a great  crowd  of  people,  too, 
upon  the  road  coming  from  the  fair  of  Crookagnavvaturgh, 
and  I sees  a jaunting-car  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  with  the  two  wheels  off  and  all  tattered.  ^ What ’s 
this?  ’ says  I.  ^ Didn’t  ye  hear  of  it?  ’ says  they  that  were 
looking  on ; At ’s  my  Lady  Rackrent’s  car,  that  was  run- 
ning away  from  her  husband,  and  the  horse  took  fright  at  a 
carrion  that  lay  across  the  road,  and  so  ran  away  with  the 
jaunting-car,  and  my  Lady  Rackrent  and  her  maid  scream- 
ing, and  the  horse  ran  with  them  against  a car  that  was 
coming  from  the  fair  with  the  boy  asleep  on  it,  and  the 
lady’s  petticoat  hanging  out  of  the  jaunting-car  caught, 
and  she  was  dragged  I can’t  tell  you  how  far  upon  the  road, 
and  it  all  broken  up  with  the  stones  just  going  to  be 
pounded,  and  one  of  the  road-makers,  with  his  sledge-ham- 
mer in  his  hand,  stops  the  horse  at  the  last,  but  my  Lady 
Rackrent  was  all  kilt  and  smashed,  and  they  lifted  her  into 
a cabin  hard  by,  and  the  maid  was  found  after  where  she 
had  been  thrown  in  the  gripe  of  a ditch,  her  cap  and 
bonnet  all  full  of  bog  water,  and  they  say  my  lady  can’t 
live  any  way.  Thady,  pray  now  is  it  true  what  I ’m 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH,  1047 

told  for  sartain,  that  Sir  Condy  has  made  over  all  to  your 
son  Jason?  ’ 

All/’  says  I. 

All  entirely?  ” says  she  again. 

All  entirely/’  says  I. 

Then/’  says  she,  that ’s  a great  shame ; but  don’t 
be  telling  Jason  what  I say.” 

And  what  is  it  you  say?  ” cries  Sir  Condy,  leaning  over 
betwixt  us,  which  made  Judy  start  greatly.  I know  the 
time  when  Judy  M’Quirk  would  never  have  stayed  so  long 
talking  at  the  door  and  I in  the  house.” 

^^Ohl”  says  Judy,  for  shame.  Sir  Condy;  times  are 
altered  since  then,  and  it ’s  my  Lady  Rackrent  you  ought 
to  be  thinking  of.” 

And  why  should  I be  thinking  of  her,  that ’s  not  think- 
ing of  me  now?  ” says  Sir  Condy. 

No  matter  for  that,”  says  Judy,  very  properly;  ^Mt ’s 
time  you  should  be  thinking  of  her,  if  ever  you  mean  to  do 
it  at  all,  for  don’t  you  know  she ’s  lying  for  death?  ” 

My  Lady  Rackrent ! ” says  Sir  Condy,  in  a surprise ; 
why,  it ’s  Mt  two  days  since  we  parted,  as  you  very  well 
know,  Thady,  in  her  full  health  and  spirits,  and  she,  and 
her  maid  along  with  her,  going  to  Mount  Juliet’s  Town  on 
her  jaunting-car.” 

She  ’ll  never  ride  no  more  on  her  jaunting-car,”  said 
Judy,  for  it  has  been  the  death  of  her  sure  enough.” 

And  is  she  dead,  then?  ” says  his  honor. 

As  good  as  dead,  I hear,”  says  Judy;  but  there’s 
Thady  here  as  just  learnt  the  whole  truth  of  the  story  as  I 
had  it,  and  it ’s  fitter  he  or  anybody  else  should  be  telling 
it  you  than  I,  Sir  Condy:  I must  be  going  home  to  the 
childer.” 

But  he  stops  her,  but  rather  from  civility  in  him,  as  I 
could  see  very  plainly,  than  anything  else,  for  Judy  was, 
as  his  honor  remarked  at  her  first  coming  in,  greatly 
changed,  and  little  likely,  as  far  as  I could  see — though  she 
did  not  seem  to  be  clear  of  it  herself, — little  likely  to  be 
my  Lady  Rackrent  now,  should  there  be  a second  toss-up 
to  be  made.  But  I told  him  the  whole  story  out  of  the  face, 
just  as  Judy  had  told  it  to  me,  and  he  sent  off  a messenger 
with  his  compliments  to  Mount  Juliet’s  Town  that  even- 
ing to  learn  the  truth  of  the  report,  and  Judy  bid  the 


1048 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


bo3^  that  was  going  call  in  at  Tim  M’Enerney^s  shop  in 
O’Shaughlin’s  Town  and  buy  her  a new  shawl. 

Do  so/^  said  Sir  Cond^^,  and  tell  Tim  to  take  no  money 
from  you,  for  I must  pay  him  for  the  shawl  myself.’^  At 
this  my  shister  throws  me  over  a look,  and  I says  nothing, 
but  turned  the  tobacco  in  my  mouth,  whilst  Judy  began 
making  a many  words  about  it,  and  saying  how  she  could 
not  be  beholden  for  shawls  to  any  gentleman.  I left  her 
there  to  consult  with  my  shister,  did  she  think  there  was 
anything  in  it,  and  my  shister  thought  I was  blind  to  be 
asking  her  the  question,  and  I thought  my  shister  must 
see  more  into  it  than  I did,  and  recollecting  all  past  times 
and  everything,  I changed  my  mind,  and  came  over  to  her 
way  of  thinking,  and  we  settled  it  that  Judy  was  very 
like  to  be  my  Lady  Rackrent  after  all,  if  a vacancy  should 
have  happened. 

The  next  day,  before  his  honor  was  up,  somebody  comes 
with  a double  knock  at  the  door,  and  I was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  see  it  was  my  son  Jason. 

“Jason,  is  it  you?^’  said  I;  “what  brings  you  to  the 
Lodge?  says  I.  “ Is  it  my  Lady  Rackrent?  We  know 
that  already  since  yesterday.^’ 

“ Maybe  so,’^  says  he ; “ but  I must  see  Sir  Condy  about 
it.^^ 

“ You  canT  see  him  yet,^^  says  I ; “ sure  he  is  not  awake.^^ 
“ Wliat  then,’’  sa3^s  he,  “ can’t  he  be  wakened,  and  I 
standing  at  the  door?  ” 

“ I ’ll  not  be  disturbing  his  honor  for  you,  Jason,” 
says  I ; “ many ’s  the  hour  you ’ve  waited  in  your  time,  and 
been  proud  to  do  it,  till  his  honor  was  at  leisure  to  speak 
to  you.  His  honor,”  says  I,  raising  my  voice,  at  which  his 
honor  wakens  of  his  own  accord,  and  calls  to  me  from  the 
room  to  know  who  it  was  I was  speaking  to.  Jason  made 
no  more  ceremony,  but  follows  me  into  the  room. 

“ How  are  you.  Sir  <]ondy?  ” says  he;  “I ’m  happy  to 
see  you  looking  so  well ; I came  up  to  know  how  you  did 
to-day,  and  to  see  did  you  want  for  anything  at  the  Lodge.” 
“Nothing  at  all,  Mr.  Jason,  I thank  you,”  says  he;  for 
his  honor  had  his  own  share  of  pride,  and  did  not  choose, 
after  all  that  had  passed,  to  be  beholden,  I suppose,  to  my 
son;  “ but  pray  take  a chair  and  be  seated,  Mr.  Jason.” 
Jason  sat  him  down  upon  the  chest,  for  chair  there  was 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1049 


none,  and  after  lie  had  sat  there  some  time,  and  a silence  on 
all  sides, — 

What  news  is  there  stirring  in  the  country,  Mr.  Jason 
M^Quirk?  says  Sir  Condy,  very  easy,  yet  high  like. 

None  that  ^s  news  to  you.  Sir  Condy,  I hear,’^  says 
Jason.  I am  sorry  to  hear  of  my  Lady  Rackrent^s  acci- 
dent.’’ 

I ’m  much  obliged  to  you,  and  so  is  her  ladyship,  I ’m 
sure,”  answered  Sir  Condy,  still  stiff;  and  there  was  an- 
other sort  of  a silence,  which  seemed  to  lie  the  heaviest  on 
my  son  Jason. 

Sir  Condy,”  says  he  at  last,  seeing  Sir  Condy  disposing 
himself  to  go  to  sleep  again,  Sir  Condy,  I dare  say  you 
recollect  mentioning  to  me  the  little  memorandum  jon 
gave  to  Lady  Rackrent  about  the  £500-a-year  jointure.” 

Very  true,”  said  Sir  Condy;  it  is  all  in  my  recollec- 
tion.” 

But  if  my  Lady  Rackrent  dies,  there ’s  an  end  of  all 
jointure,”  says  Jason. 

Of  course,”  says  Sir  Condy. 

“ But  it ’s  not  a matter  of  certainty  that  my  Lady  Rack- 
rent  won’t  recover,”  says  Jason. 

Very  true,  sir,”  says  my  master. 

It ’s  a fair  speculation,  then,  for  you  to  consider  what 
the  chance  of  the  jointure  of  those  lands,  when  out  of  cus- 
todian!, will  be  to  you.” 

“ Just  five  hundred  a year,  I take  it,  without  any  specu- 
lation at  all,”  said  Sir  Condy. 

That ’s  supposing  the  life  dropt,  and  the  custodiam  off, 
you  know;  begging  your  pardon.  Sir  Condy,  who  under- 
stands business,  that  is  a wrong  calculation.” 

Very  likely  so,”  said  Sir  Condy;  but,  Mr.  Jason,  if 
you  have  anything  to  sa}'  to  me  this  morning  about  it,  I ’d 
be  obliged  to  you  to  sa^'  it,  for  I had  an  indifferent  night’s 
rest  last  night,  and  wouldn’t  be  sorry  to  sleep  a little  this 
morning.” 

I have  only  three  words  to  say,  and  those  more  of  con- 
sequence to  3^ou,  Sir  Condy,  than  me.  You  are  a little  cool, 
I observe;  but  I hope  you  will  not  be  offended  at  what  I 
have  brought  here  in  my  pocket,”  and  he  pulls  out  two  long 
rolls,  and  showers  down  golden  guineas  upon  the  bed. 


i2'-'lrish  Lit.  Vol. 


1050 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


What’s  this?”  said  Sir  Condy;  ‘Mt ’s  long  since” — 
but  his  pride  stops  him. 

All  these  are  your  lawful  property  this  minute,  Sir 
Condy,  if  you  please,”  said  Jason. 

Not  for  nothing,  I ’m  sure,”  said  Sir  Condy,  and  laughs 
a little.  Nothing  for  nothing,  or  I ’m  under  a mistake 
with  3^011,  Jason.” 

Oh,  Sir  Condy,  we  ’ll  not  be  indulging  ourselves  in  any 
unpleasant  retrospects,”  says  Jason;  it ’s  my  present  in- 
tention to  behave,  as  I ’m  sure  you  will,  like  a gentleman 
in  this  affair.  Here ’s  two  hundred  guineas,  and  a third 
I mean  to  add  if  you  should  think  proper  to  make  over  to 
me  all  your  right  and  title  to  those  lands  that  you  know 
of.” 

I ’ll  consider  of  it,”  said  my  master ; and  a great  deal 
more,  that  I was  tired  listening  to,  was  said  by  Jason,  and 
all  that,  and  the  sight  of  the  ready  cash  upon  the  bed, 
worked  with  his  honor;  and  the  short  and  the  long  of  it 
was.  Sir  Condy  gathered  up  the  golden  guineas,  and  tied 
them  up  in  a handkerchief,  and  signed  some  paper  Jason 
brought  with  him  as  usual,  and  there  was  an  end  of  the 
business:  Jason  took  himself  away,  and  my  master  turned 
himself  round  and  fell  asleep  again. 

I soon  found  what  had  put  Jason  in  such  a hurry  to  con- 
clude this  business.  The  little  gossoon  we  had  sent  off  the 
day  before  with  my  master’s  compliments  to  Mount  Juliet’s 
Town,  and  to  know  how  my  lady  did  after  her  accident, 
was  stopped  early  this  morning,  coming  back  with  his 
answer  through  O’Shaiighlin’s  Town,  at  Castle  Rackrent, 
by  m3  son  Jason,  and  questioned  of  all  he  knew  of  my  lady 
from  the  servant  at  Mount  Juliet’s  Town ; and  the  gossoon 
told  him  my  Lady  Rackrent  was  not  expected  to  live  over- 
night; so  Jason  thought  it  high  time  to  be  moving  to  the 
Lodge,  to  make  his  bargain  with  my  master  about  the  join- 
ture afore  it  should  be  too  late,  and  afore  the  little  gossoon 
should  reach  us  with  the  news.  My  master  was  greatly 
vexed — that  is,  I may  say,  as  much  as  ever  I seen  him — 
when  he  found  how  he  had  been  taken  in ; but  it  was  some 
comfort  to  have  the  ready  cash  for  immediate  consumption 
in  the  house,  anyway. 

And  when  Judy  came  up  that  evening,  and  brought  the 
childer  to  see  his  honor,  he  unties  the  handkerchief,  and — 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1051 


God  bless  him ! whether  it  was  little  or  much  he  had,  ^t  was 
all  the  same  with  him — he  gives  ’em  all  round  guineas 
apiece. 

Hold  up  your  head,”  says  my  shister  to  Judy,  as  Sir 
Condy  was  busy  filling  out  a glass  of  punch  for  her  eldest 
boy — Hold  up  your  head,  Judy;  for  who  knows  but  we 
may  live  to  see  you  yet  at  the  head  of  the  Castle  Rackrent 
estate?  ” 

Maybe  so,”  says  she,  but  not  the  way  you  are  think- 
ing of.” 

I did  not  rightly  understand  which  way  Judy  was  look- 
ing when  she  made  this  speech  till  a while  after. 

Why,  Thady,  you  were  telling  me  yesterday  that  Sir 
Condy  had  sold  all  entirely  to  Jason,  and  where  then  does 
all  them  guineas  in  the  handkerchief  come  from?  ” 

They  are  the  purchase-money  of  my  lady’s  jointure,” 
says  I. 

Judy  looks  a little  bit  puzzled  at  this.  A penny  for 
your  thoughts,  Judy,”  says  my  shister;  ^Miark,  sure  Sir 
Condy  is  drinking  her  health.” 

He  was  at  the  table  in  the  room,  drinking  with  the  ex- 
ciseman and  the  gauger,  who  came  up  to  see  his  honor, 
and  we  were  standing  over  the  fire  in  the  kitchen. 

I don’t  much  care  is  he  drinking  1113^  health  or  not,” 
says  Judy;  and  it  is  not  Sir  Condj"  I ’111  thinking  of,  with 
all  your  jokes,  whatever  he  is  of  me.” 

Sure  you  wouldn’t  refuse  to  be  my  Lady  Rackrent, 
Judy,  if  you  had  the  offer?  ” sa^^s  I. 

But  if  I could  do  better  I ” saj^s  she. 

How  better?  ” sa^^s  I and  1113^  shister  both  at  once. 

How  better?  ” says  she.  Why,  what  signifies  it  to  be 
my  Lady  Rackrent  and  no  castle?  Sure  what  good  is  the 
car,  and  no  horse  to  draw  it?  ” 

And  where  will  ye  get  the  horse,  Jud3’?  ” says  I. 

Never  mind  that,”  sa3\s  she;  maybe  it  is  3^our  own  son 
Jason  might  find  that.” 

Jason ! ” sa3^s  I ; don’t  be  trusting  to  him,  Jud3^  Sir 
Condy,  as  I have  good  reason  to  know,  spoke  well  of  3^ou 
when  Jason  spoke  very  indifferently  of  you,  Judy.” 

No  matter,”  says  Judy;  “ it ’s  often  men  speak  the  con- 
trary just  to  what  they  think  of  us.” 

“ And  you  the  same  way  of  them,  no  doubt,”  answered  I. 


1052 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Nay,  don’t  be  denying  it,  Judy,  for  I think  the  better  of 
ye  for  it,  and  shouldn’t  be  proud  to  call  ye  the  daughter  of  a 
shister’s  son  of  mine,  if  I was  to  hear  ye  talk  ungrateful, 
and  any  way  disrespectful  of  his  honor.” 

What  disrespect,”  says  she,  to  say  I ’d  rather,  if  it 
was  my  luck,  be  the  wife  of  another  man?  ” 

You ’ll  have  no  luck,  mind  my  words,  Judy,”  says  I; 
and  all  I remembered  about  my  poor  master’s  goodness  in 
tossing  up  for  her  afore  he  married  at  all  came  across  me, 
and  I had  a choking  in  my  throat  that  hindered  me  to  say 
more. 

“ Better  luck,  anyhow,  Thady,”  says  she,  than  to  be 
like  some  folk,  following  the  fortunes  of  them  that  have 
none  left.” 

Oh ! King  of  Glory ! ” says  I,  ‘‘  hear  the  pride  and  un- 
gratitude of  her,  and  he  giving  his  last  guineas  but  a min- 
ute ago  to  her  childer,  and  she  with  the  fine  shawl  on  her 
he  made  her  a present  of  but  yesterday ! ” 

“ Oh,  troth,  Judy,  you  ’re  wrong  now,”  says  my  shister, 
looking  at  the  shawl. 

And  was  not  he  wrong  yesterday,  then,”  says  she,  to 
be  telling  me  I was  greatly  altered,  to  affront  me?  ” 

But,  Judy,”  says  I,  what  is  it  brings  you  here  then  at 
all  in  the  mind  you  are  in;  is  it  to  make  Jason  think  the 
better  of  you?  ” 

I ’ll  tell  you  no  more  of  my  secrets,  Thady,”  says  she, 
“ nor  would  have  told  you  this  much,  had  I taken  you  for 
such  an  unnatural  fader  as  I find  you  are,  not  to  wish  your 
own  son  prefarred  to  another.” 

Oh,  troth,  you  are  wrong  now,  Thady,”  says  my  shister. 

Well,  I was  never  so  put  to  it  in  my  life;  between  these 
women,  and  my  son,  and  my  master,  and  all  I felt  and 
thought  just  now,  I could  not,  upon  my  conscience,  tell 
which  was  the  wrong  from  the  right.  So  I said  not  a word 
more,  but  was  only  glad  his  honor  had  not  the  luck  to  hear 
all  Judy  had  been  saying  of  him,  for  I reckoned  it  would 
have  gone  nigh  to  break  his  heart ; not  that  I was  of  opinion 
he  cared  for  her  as  much  as  she  and  my  shister  fancied,  but 
the  ungratitude  of  the  whole  from  Judy  might  not  plase 
him ; and  he  could  never  stand  the  notion  of  not  being  well 
spoken  of  or  beloved-like  behind  his  back.  Fortunately  for 
all  parties  concerned,  he  was  so  much  elevated  at  this  time, 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1053 


there  was  no  danger  of  his  understanding  anything,  even 
if  it  had  reached  his  ears.  There  was  a great  horn  at  the 
Lodge,  ever  since  my  master  and  Captain  Money gawl  was 
in  together,  that  used  to  belong  originally  to  the  celebrated 
Sir  Patrick,  his  ancestor;  and  his  honor  was  fond  often  of 
telling  the  story  that  he  learned  from  me  when  a child,  how 
Sir  Patrick  drank  the  full  of  this  horn  without  stopping, 
and  this  was  what  no  other  man  afore  or  since  could  with- 
out drawing  breath.  Now  Sir  Condy  challenged  the  gau- 
ger, who  seemed  to  think  little  of  the  horn,  to  swallow  the 
contents,  and  had  it  filled  to  the  brim  with  punch ; and  the 
gauger  said  it  was  what  he  could  not  do  for  nothing,  but 
he  M hold  Sir  Condy  a hundred  guineas  he  M do  it. 

Done,’^  says  my  master ; I ^11  lay  you  a hundred  gol- 
den guineas  to  a tester  you  don^t.^^ 

Done,^’  says  the  gauger ; and  done  and  done  ^s  enough 
between  two  gentlemen.  The  gauger  was  cast,  and  my 
master  won  the  bet,  and  thought  he  ^d  won  a hundred  guin- 
eas, but  by  the  wording  it  was  adjudged  to  be  only  a tester 
that  was  his  due  by  the  exciseman.  It  was  all  one  to  him ; 
he  was  as  well  pleased,  and  I was  glad  to  see  him  in  such 
spirits  again. 

The  gauger — bad  luck  to  him ! — was  the  man  that  next 
proposed  to  my  master  to  try  himself,  could  he  take  at  a 
draught  the  contents  of  the  great  horn. 

Sir  Patrick’s  horn!  ” said  his  honor;  hand  it  to  me: 
I ’ll  hold  you  your  own  bet  over  again  I ’ll  swallow  it.” 

Done,”  says  the  gauger ; I ’ll  lay  ye  anything  at  all 
you  do  no  such  thing.” 

A hundred  guineas  to  sixpence  I do,”  says  he;  bring 
me  the  handkerchief.”  I was  loth,  knowing  he  meant  the 
handkerchief  with  the  gold  in  it,  to  bring  it  out  in  such 
company,  and  his  honor  not  very  able  to  reckon  it.  Bring 
me  the  handkerchief,  then,  Thady,”  says  he,  and  stamps 
Avith  his  foot;  so  Avith  that  I pulls  it  out  of  my  greatcoat 
pocket,  where  I had  put  it  for  safety.  Oh  hoAv  it  grie\^ed 
me  to  see  the  guineas  counting  upon  the  table,  and  they  the 
last  my  master  had  ! Says  Sir  Condy  to  me : Your  hand 

is  steadier  than  mine  to-niglit,  old  Thady,  and  that ’s  a 
AA^onder ;,fill  you  the  horn  for  me.”  And  so,  Avisliing  his 
honor  success,  I did ; but  I filled  it,  little  thinking  of  Avhat 
would  befall  him.  lie  SAvalloAA^s  it  down,  and  drops  like 


1054 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


one  shot.  We  lifts  him  up,  and  he  was  speechless,  and 
quite  black  in  the  face.  We  put  him  to  bed,  and  in  a short 
time  he  wakened,  raving  with  a fever  on  his  brain.  He 
was  shocking  either  to  see  or  hear. 

Judy ! Judy ! have  3'Ou  no  touch  of  feeling?  Won’t  you 
stay  to  help  us  nurse  him?  ” sa^s  I to  her,  and  she  putting 
on  lier  shawl  to  go  out  of  the  house. 

I ’m  frightened  to  see  him,”  says  she,  and  wouldn’t 
nor  couldn’t  stay  in  it:  and  what  use?  He  can’t  last  till 
the  morning.”  With  that  she  ran  olf.  There  was  none  but 
my  shister  and  mj^self  left  near  him  of  all  the  many  friends 
he  had. 

The  fever  came  and  went,  and  came  and  went,  and  lasted 
five  da3^s,  and  the  sixth  he  was  sensible  for  a few  minutes, 
and  said  to  me,  knowing  me  very  well,  I ’m  in  a burning 
pain  all  withinside  of  me,  Thady.”  I could  not  speak,  but 
1113^  shister  asked  him  would  he  have  this  thing  or  t’  other 
to  do  him  good?  No,”  says  he,  nothing  will  do  me  good 
no  more,”  and  he  gave  a terrible  screech  with  the  torture 
he  was'dn;  then  again  a minute’s  ease — ^‘brought  to  this 
'by  drink,”  sa.ys  he.  Where  are  all  the  friends? — where ’s 
Judy?  Gone,  hey?  Ay,  Sir  Condy  has  been  a fool  all  his 
days,”  said  he;  and  there  was  the  last  word  he  spoke,  and 
died.  He  had  but  a very  poor  funeral  after  all. 

If  you  want  to  know  any  more,  I ’m  not  very  well  able  to 
tell  3^ou;  but  my  Lady  Kackrent  did  not  die,  as  was  ex- 
pected of  her,  but  was  only  disfigured  in  the  face  ever  after 
by  the  fall  and  bruises  she  got;  and  she  and  Jason,  imme- 
diatel}^  after  my  poor  master’s  death,  set  about  going  to 
law  about  that  jointure;  the  niemorandum  not  being  on 
stamped  paper,  some  say  it  is  worth  nothing,  others  again 
it  may  do;  others  say  Jason  won’t  have  the  lands  at  any 
rate ; manj^  wishes  it  so.  For  my  part,  I ’m  tired  wishing 
for  an^Thing  in  this  world,  after  all  I’ve  seen  in  it;  but 
I ’ll  say  nothing — it  would  be  a folly  to  be  getting  myself 
ill-will  in  ni}^  old  age.  Jason  did  not  marry,  nor  think  of 
marrying,  Judy,  as  I prophesied,  and  I am  not  sorry  for 
it:  who  is?  As  for  all  I have  here  set  down  from  memory 
and  hearsay  of  the  family  there ’s  nothing  but  truth  in  it 
from  beginning  to  end.  That  you  may  depend  upon,  for 
where ’s  the  use  of  telling  lies  about  the  things  which 
everybody  knows  as  well  as  I do? 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1055 


[The  Editor  could  have  readily  made  the  catastrophe  of 
Sir  Condy^s  history  more  dramatic  and  more  pathetic,  if 
he  thought  it  allowable  to  varnish  the  plain  round  tale  of 
faithful  Thady.  He  lays  it  before  the  English  reader  as  a 
specimen  of  manners  and  character  which  are  perhaps  un- 
known in  England.  Indeed,  the  domestic  habits  of  no 
nation  in  Europe  were  less  known  to  the  English  than  those 
of  their  sister  country  till  within  these  few  years. 

Mr.  Young’s  picture  of  Ireland,  in  his  tour  through  that 
country,  was  the  first  faithful  portrait  of  its  inhabitants. 
All  the  features  in  the  foregoing  sketch  were  taken  from 
the  life,  and  they  are  characteristic  of  that  mixture  of 
quickness,  simplicity,  cunning,  carelessness,  dissipation, 
disinterestedness,  shrewdness,  and  blunder,  which,  in  dif- 
ferent forms  and  with  various  success,  has  been  brought 
upon  the  stage  or  delineated  in  novels. 

It  is  a problem  of  difficult  solution  to  determine  whether 
a union  will  hasten  or  retard  the  amelioration  of  this  coun- 
try. The  few  gentlemen  of  education  who  now  reside  in 
this  country  will  resort  to  England.  They  are  few,  but 
they  are  in  nothing  inferior  to  men  of  the  same  rank  in 
Great  Britain.  The  best  that  can  happen  will  be  the  in- 
troduction of  British  manufacturers  in  their  places. 

Did  the  Warwickshire  militia,  who  were  chiefly  artisans, 
teach  the  Irish  to  drink  beer?  or  did  they  learn  from  the 
Irish  to  drink  whisky?] 


THE  OKIGINALITY  OF  IRISH  BULLS 
EXAMINED. 

From  ‘ An  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls.’ 

The  difficulty  of  selecting  from  the  vulgar  herd  of  Irish 
bulls  one  that  shall  be  entitled  to  the  prize,  from  the  united 
merits  of  pre-eminent  absurdity  and  indisputable  origi- 
nality, is  greater  than  hasty  judges  may  imagine.  Many 
bulls,  reputed  to  be  bred  and  born  in  Ireland,  are  of  for- 
eign extraction ; and  many  more,  supposed  to  be  unrivaled 
in  their  kind,  may  be  matched  in  all  their  capital  points : 
for  instance,  there  is  not  a more  celebrated  bull  than  Paddy 


1056 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Blake’s.  When  Paddy  heard  an  English  gentleman  speak- 
ing of  the  fine  echo  at  the  lake  of  Killarney,  which  repeats 
the  sound  forty  times,  he  very  promptly  observed : Faith, 

that ’s  nothing  at  all  to  the  echo  in  my  father’s  garden,  in 
the  county  of  Galway : if  you  say  to  it,  ‘ How  do  you  do, 
Paddy  Blake?  ’ it  will  answer,  ^ Pretty  well,  I thank  you, 
sir.’  ” 

Now  this  echo  of  Paddy  Blake,  which  has  long  been  the 
admiration  of  the  world,  is  not  a prodigy  unique  in  its 
kind;  it  can  be  matched  by  one  recorded  in  the  immortal 
works  of  the  great  Lord  Verulam. 

“ I remember  well,”  says  this  father  of  philosophy,  that 
when  I went  to  the  echo  at  Port  Charenton,  there  was  an 
old  Parisian  that  took  it  to  be  the  work  of  spirits,  and  of 
good  spirits;  ^ for,’  said  he,  ^ call  Satan,  and  the  echo  will 
not  deliver  back  the  devil’s  name,  but  will  say  Va-t-en.’  (go 
away)  ” 

The  Parisian  echo  is  surely  superior  to  the  Hibernian! 
Paddy  Blake’s  simply  understood  and  practiced  the  com- 
mon rules  of  good  breeding;  but  the  Port  Charenton  echo 
is  “ instinct  with  spirit,”  and  endowed  with  a nice  moral 
sense. 

Among  the  famous  bulls  recorded  by  the  illustrious  Joe 
Miller,  there  is  one  which  has  been  continually  quoted  as 
an  example  of  original  Irish  genius.  An  English  gentle- 
man was  writing  a letter  in  a coffee-house,  and  perceiving 
that  an  Irishman  stationed  behind  him  was  taking  that 
liberty  which  Hephmstion  used  with  his  friend  Alexander, 
instead  of  putting  his  seal  upon  the  lips  of  the  curious 
impertinent,  the  Englishman  thought  proper  to  reprove 
the  Hibernian,  if  not  with  delicacy,  at  least  with  poetical 
justice;  he  concluded  writing  his  letter  in  these  words:  I 

would  say  more,  but  a tall  Irishman  is  reading  over 

my  shoulder  every  word  I write.” 

You  lie,  you  scoundrel ! ” said  the  self-convicted  Hiber- 
nian. 

This  blunder  is  unquestionably  excellent;  but  it  is  not 
originally  Irish : it  comes,  with  other  riches,  from  the  East, 
as  the  reader  may  find  by  looking  into  a book  by  M.  Gal- 
land,  entitled,  The  Kemarkable  Sayings  of  the  Eastern 
Nations.” 

A learned  man  was  writing  to  a friend ; a troublesome 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1057 


fellow  was  beside  him,  who  was  looking  over  his  shoulder 
at  what  he  was  writing.  The  learned  man,  who  perceived 
this,  continued  writing  in  these  words,  ‘ If  an  imperti- 
nent chap,  who  stands  beside  me,  were  not  looking  at  what 
I write,  I would  write  many  other  things  to  you  which 
should  be  known  only  to  you  and  to  me.’ 

The  troublesome  fellow,  who  was  reading  on,  now 
thought  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  speak,  and  said,  ‘ I 
swear  to  you  that  I have  not  read  or  looked  at  what  you 
are  writing.’ 

The  learned  man  replied,  ^ Blockhead,  as  you  are,  why 
then  do  you  say  to  me  what  you  are  now  saying?  ’ ” 

Making  allowance  for  the  difference  of  manners  in  eas- 
tern and  northern  nations,  there  is  certainly  such  a sim- 
ilarity between  this  Oriental  anecdote  and  Joe  Miller’s 
story,  that  we  may  conclude  the  latter  is  stolen  from  the 
former.  Now  an  Irish  bull  must  be  a species  of  blunder 
peculiar  to  Ireland ; those  that  we  have  hitherto  examined, 
though  they  may  be  called  Irish  bulls  by  the  ignorant 
vulgar,  have  no  right,  title,  or  claim  to  such  a distinction. 
We  should  invariably  exclude  from  that  class  all  blunders 
which  can  be  found  in  another  country.  For  instance,  a 

speech  of  the  celebrated  Irish  beauty.  Lady  C , has  been 

called  a bull;  but  as  a parallel  can  be  produced,  in  the 
speech  of  an  English  nobleman,  it  tells  for  nothing.  When 
her  ladyship  was  presented  at  court,  his  Majesty  George 
II.  politely  hoped  “ that,  since  her  arrival  in  England,  she 
had  been  entertained  with  the  gayeties  of  London.” 

O yes,  please  your  Majesty,  I have  seen  every  sight  in 
London  worth  seeing,  except  a coronation.” 

This  naivete  is  certainly  not  equal  to  that  of  the  English 
earl  marshal,  who,  when  his  king  found  fault  with  some 
arrangement  at  his  coronation,  said,  Please  your  Maj- 
esty I hope  it  will  be  better  the  next  time.” 

A nawete  of  the  same  species  entailed  a heavy  tax  upon 
the  inhabitants  of  Beaune,  in  France.  Beaune  is  famous 
for  Burgundy;  and  Henry  IV.  passing  through  his  king- 
dom, stopped  there,  and  was  well  entertained  by  his  loyal 
subjects.  His  Majesty  praised  the  Burgundy  which  they 
set  before  him — It  was  excellent ! it  was  admirable ! ” 

O sire!  ” cried  they,  do  you  think  this  excellent?  we 
have  much  finer  Burgundy  than  this.” 


1058 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Have  you  so?  then  you  can  afford  to  pay  for  it/’  cried 
Henry  lY. ; and  he  laid  a double  tax  thenceforward  upon 
the  Burgundy  of  Beaune. 

Of  the  same  class  of  blunders  is  the  following  speech, 
'Which  we  actually  heard  not  long  ago  from  an  Irishman : — 
Please  your  worship,  he  sent  me  to  the  devil,  and  I 
came  straight  to  your  honor.” 

We  thought  this  an  original  Irish  blunder,  till  we  recol- 
lected its  prototype  in  Marmontel’s  ‘ Annette  and  Lubin.’ 
Lubin  concludes  his  harangue  with,  “ The  bailiff  sent  us 
to  the  devil,  and  we  came  to  put  ourselves  under  your  pro- 
tection, my  lord.” 

The  French,  at  least  in  former  times,  were  celebrated 
for  politeness;  yet  we  meet  with  a naive  compliment  of  a 
Frenchman  wliich  would  have  been  accounted  a bull  if  it 
had  been  found  in  Ireland : — 

A gentleman  was  complimenting  Madame  Denis  on  the 
manner  in  which  she  had  just  acted  Zara.  “ To  act  that 
part,”  said  she,  a person  should  be  young  and  hand- 
some.” “ Ah,  madam ! ” replied  the  complimenter  naive- 
ment,  you  are  a complete  proof  of  the  contrary.” 

We  know  not  any  original  Irish  blunder  superior  to  this, 
unless  it  be  that  which  Lord  Orford  pronounced  to  be  the 
best  bull  that  he  had  ever  heard : — 

I hate  that  woman,”  said  a gentleman,  looking  at  one 
who  had  been  his  nurse,  I hate  that  woman,  for  she 
changed  me  at  nurse.” 

Lord  Orford  particularly^  admires  this  bull,  because  in 
the  confusion  of  the  blunderer’s  ideas  he  is  not  clear  even 
of  his  personal  identity.  Philosophers  will  not  perhaps  be 
so  ready  as  his  lordship  has  been  to  call  this  a blunder  of 
the  first  magnitude.  Those  who  have  never  been  initiated 
into  the  mysteries  of  metaphysics  may  have  the  presump- 
tuous ignorance  to  fancy  that  they  understand  what  is 
meant  by  the  common  words  I or  me;  but  the  able  meta- 
physican  knows  better  than  Lord  Orford’s  changeling  how 
to  prove,  to  our  satisfaction,  that  we  know  nothing  of  the 
matter. 

Personal  identity,”  says  Locke,  consists  not  in  the 
identity  of  substance,  but  in  the  identity  of  consciousness, 
wherein  Socrates  and  the  present  Mayor  of  Quinborough 
agree  they  are  the  same  person ; if  the  same  Socrates  sleep- 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1059 


ing  and  waking  do  not  partake  of  the  same  consciousness, 
Socrates  waking  and  sleeping  is  not  the  same  person;  and 
to  punish  Socrates  waking  for  what  sleeping  Socrates 
thought,  and  waking  Socrates  was  never  conscious  of, 
would  be  no  more  right  than  to  punish  one  twin  for  what 
his  brother  twin  did,  whereof  he  knew  nothing,  because 
their  outsides  are  so  like  that  they  could  not  be  distin- 
guished; for  such  twins  have  been  seen.’’ 

We  may  presume  that  our  Hibernian’s  consciousness 
could  not  retrograde  to  the  time  when  he  was  changed  at 
nurse;  consequently  there  was  no  continuity  of  identity 
between  the  infant  and  the  man  who  expressed  his  hatred 
of  the  nurse  for  perpetrating  the  fraud.  At  all  events,  the 
confusion  of  identity  which  excited  Lord  Orford’s  admi- 
ration in  our  Hibernian  is  by  no  means  unprecedented  in 
France,  England,  or  ancient  Greece,  and  consequently  it 
cannot  be  an  instance  of  national  idiosyncrasy,  or  an  Irish 
bull.  We  find  a similar  blunder  in  Spain,  in  the  time  of 
Cervantes : — 

Pray  tell  me  Squire,”  says  the  duchess,  in  ^ Don 
Quixote,’  “ is  not  your  master  the  person  whose  history  is 
printed  under  the  name  of  the  sage  Hidalgo  Don  Quixote 
de  la  Mancha,  who  professes  himself  the  admirer  of  one 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso?  ” 

The  very  same,  my  lady,”  answered  Sancho ; ‘‘  and  I 
myself  am  that  very  squire  of  his  who  is  mentioned,  or 
ought  to  be  mentioned  in  that  history,  unless  they  have 
changed  me  in  the  cradle.” 

In  Moliere’s  ^ Amphitryon  ’ there  is  a dialogue  between 
Mercure  and  Sosie  evidently  taken  from  the  Attic  Lucian. 
Sosie,  being  completely  puzzled  out  of  his  personal  identity, 
if  not  out  of  his  senses,  says  literally,  Of  my  being  my- 
self I begin  to  doubt  in  good  earnest;  yet  when  I feel  my- 
self, and  when  I recollect  myself,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
am  I.” 

We  see  that  the  puzzle  about  identity  proves  at  last  to  be 
of  Grecian  origin.  It  is  really  edifying  to  observe  how 
those  things  which  have  long  been  objects  of  popular  ad- 
miration shrink  and  fade  when  exposed  to  the  light  of 
strict  examination.  An  experienced  critic  proposed  that 
a work  should  be  written  to  inquire  into  the  pretensions 
of  modern  writers  to  original  invention,  to  trace  their 


1060 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


thefts,  and  to  restore  the  property  to  the  ancient  owners. 
Such  a work  woujd  require  powers  and  erudition  beyond 
what  can  be  expected  from  any  ordinary  individual ; the 
labor  must  be  shared  among  numbers,  and  we  are  proud 
to  assist  in  ascertaining  the  rightful  property  even  of  bulls 
and  blunders;  though  without  pretending,  like  some  lit- 
erary bloodhounds,  to  follow  up  a plagiarism  where  com- 
mon sagacity  is  at  a fault. 


LITTLE  DOMINICK. 

From  ‘ An  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls.* 

Little  Dominick  was  born  at  Fort  Reilly,  in  Ireland,  and 
was  bred  nowhere  till  his  tenth  year;  when  he  was  sent  to 
Wales,  to  learn  manners,  and  grammar,  at  the  school  of 
Mr.  Owen  ap  Davies  ap  Jenkins  ap  Jones.  This  gentleman 
had  reason  to  think  himself  the  greatest  of  men;  for  he 
had,  over  his  chimney-piece,  a well-smoked  genealogy,  duly 
attested,  tracing  his  ancestry  in  a direct  line  up  to  Noah; 
and,  moreover,  he  was  nearl}^  related  to  the  learned  ety- 
mologist, who,  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wrote  a 
folio  volume  to  prove  that  the  language  of  Adam  and  Eve 
in  Paradise  was  pure  Welsh.  With  such  causes  to  be 
proud,  Mr.  Owen  ap  Davies  ap  Jenkins  ap  Jones  was  ex- 
cusable for  sometimes  seeming  to  forget  that  a school- 
master is  but  a man.  He,  however,  sometimes  entirely 
forgot  that  a boy  is  but  a bo^^;  and  this  happened  most 
frequently  with  respect  to  Little  Dominick. 

This  unlucky  wight  was  flogged  every  morning  by  his 
master ; not  for  his  vices,  but  for  his  vicious  constructions  : 
and  laughed  at  by  his  companions  every  evening,  for  his 
idiomatic  absurdities.  They  would  probably  have  been 
inclined  to  sympathize  in  his  misfortunes,  but  that  he  was 
the  only  Irish  boy  at  school;  and  as  he  was  at  a distance 
from  all  his  relations,  and  without  a friend  to  take  his 
part,  he  was  a just  object  of  obloquy  and  derision.  Every 
sentence  he  spoke  was  a bull,  every  two  words  he  put  to- 
gether proved  a false  concord,  and  every  sound  he  artic- 
ulated betrayed  the  brogue.  But  as  he  possessed  some  of 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1061 


the  characteristic  boldness  of  those  who  have  been  dipped 
in  the  Shannon,  though  he  was  only  little  Dominick,  he 
showed  himself  able  and  willing  1 1 fight  his  own  battles 
with  the  host  of  foes  by  whom  he  was  encompassed.  Some 
of  these,  it  was  said,  were  of  nearly  twice  his  stature. 
This  may  be  exaggerated:  but  it  is  certain  that  our  hero 
sometimes  ventured,  with  sly  Irish  humor,  to  revenge  him- 
self on  his  most  powerful  tyrant,  by  mimicking  the  Welsh 
accent,  in  which  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  said  to  him — Cot 
pless  me,  you  plockit,  and  shall  I never  learn  you  Enclish 
crammar? 

It  was  whispered  in  the  ear  of  this  Dionysius  that  our 
little  hero  was  a mimic,  and  he  was  now  treated  with  in- 
creased severity. 

The  midsummer  holidays  approached;  but  he  feared 
that  they  would  shine  no  holida^^s  for  him.  He  had  written 
to  his  mother  to  tell  her  that  school  would  break  up  on  the 
21st ; and  to  beg  an  answer,  without  fail,  by  return  of  post : 
but  no  answer  came. 

It  was  now  nearly  two  months  since  he  had  heard  from 
his  dear  mother,  or  any  of  his  friends  in  Ireland.  His 
spirits  began  to  sink  under  the  pressure  of  these  accu- 
mulated misfortunes:  he  slept  little,  eat  less,  and  played 
not  at  all.  Indeed,  nobod}^  would  play  with  him  on  equal 
terms,  because  he  was  nobody’s  equal:  his  schoolfellows 
continued  to  consider  him  as  a being,  if  not  of  a different 
species,  at  least  of  a different  cast  from  themselves. 

Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones’  triumph  over  the  little  Irish  plockit 
was  nearly  complete,  for  the  boy’s  heart  was  almost  broken, 
when  there  came  to  the  school  a new  scholar — O,  how  un- 
like the  others ! — His  name  was  Edwards : he  was  the  son 
of  a neighboring  Welsh  gentleman;  and  he  had  himself 
the  spirit  of  a gentleman.  MJien  he  saw  how  poor  Domi- 
nick was  persecuted,  he  took  him  under  his  protection; 
fought  his  battles  with  the  Welsh  boys;  and  instead  of 
laughing  at  him  for  speaking  Irish,  he  endeavored  to 
teach  him  to  speak  English.  In  his  answers  to  the  first 
questions  Edwards  ever  asked  him.  Little  Dominick  made 
two  blunders,  which  set  all  his  other  companions  in  a roar; 
yet  Edwards  would  not  allow  them  to  be  genuine  bulls. 

In  answer  to  the  question — ‘‘Who  is  your  father?’^ 


1062 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Dominick  said,  with  a deep  sigh — “ I have  no  father — I 
am  an  orphan — I have  only  a mother.” 

Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters?  ” 

^^No!  I wish  I had;  for  perhaps  they  would  love  me, 
and  not  laugh  at  me,”  said  Dominick,  with  tears  in  his  eyes ; 
‘‘  but  I have  no  brothers  hut  myself. 

One  day  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  came  into  the  schoolroom 
with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  saying — Here,  you  little 
Irish  plockit,  here ’s  a letter  from  your  mother.” 

The  little  Irish  blockhead  started  from  his  form;  and, 
throwing  his  grammar  on  the  floor,  leaped  up  higher  than 
he  or  any  boy  in  the  school  had  ever  been  seen  to  leap  be- 
fore; then,  clapping  his  hands,  he  exclaimed — A letter 
from  my  mother!  And  iviU  I hear  the  letter? — And  will 
I see  her  once  more? — And  will  I go  home  these  holidays? 
— O,  then  I will  be  too  happy ! ” 

There’s  no  tanger  of  that,”  said  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones; 
for  your  mother,  like  a wise  ooman,  writes  me  here,  that, 
py  the  atvice  of  your  cardian,  to  oom  she  is  going  to  be 
married,  she  will  not  pring  you  home  to  Ireland  till  I send 
her  word  you  are  perfect  in  your  Enclish  crammar  at 
least.” 

I have  my  lesson  perfect,  sir,”  said  Dominick,  taking 
his  grammar  up  from  the  floor;  “ tvill  I say  it  now?  ” 

‘‘No,  jon  plockit,  you  ivill  not;  and  I will  write  your 
mother  word,  you  have  proke  Priscian’s  head  four  times 
this  tay,  since  her  letter  came.” 

Little  Dominick,  for  the  first  time,  was  seen  to  burst 
into  tears — “ Will  I hear  the  letter? — Will  I see  my 
mother? — Will  I go  home?  ” 

“ You  Irish  plockit ! ” continued  the  relentless  gram- 
marian : “ you  Irish  plockit,  will  you  never  learn  the  dif- 
ference between  shall  and  tvill  f ” 

The  Welsh  boys  all  grinned,  except  Edwards,  who 
hummed  loud  enough  to  be  heard — 

“ And  ivill  I see  him  once  again  ? 

And  tvill  I hear  him  speak  ? ” 

Many  of  the  boys  were,  unfortunately,  too  ignorant  to  feel 
the  force  of  the  quotation;  but  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  un- 
derstood it,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked  off. 

Soon  afterwards,  he  summoned  Dominick  to  his  awful 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1063 


desk;  and  pointing  with  his  ruler  to  the  following  page 
in  Harris’  ^ Hermes/  bade  him  reat  it,  and  understand  it,” 
if  he  could. 

Little  Dominick  read,  but  could  not  understand. 

Then  reat  it  alout,  you  plockit.” 

Dominick  read  aloud — 

a There  is  nothing  appears  so  clearly  an  object ‘of  the 
mind  or  intellect  only  as  the  future  does:  since  we  can  find 
no  place  for  its  existence  anywhere  else : not  but  the  same, 
if  we  consider,  is  equally  true  of  the  past — ” 

Well,  CO  on — What  stops  the  plockit? — Can’t  you  reat 
Enclish  now?  ” 

“Yes,  sir;  but  I was  trying  to  understand  it — I was 
considering,  that  this  is  like  what  they  would  call  an  Irish 
bull,  if  I had  said  it.” 

Little  Dominick  could  not  explain  what  he  meant  in 
English,  that  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  would  understand;  and 
to  punish  him  for  his  impertinent  observation,  the  boy  was 
doomed  to  learn  all  that  Harris  and  Lowth  have  Avritten 
to  explain  the  nature  of  shall  and  will. — The  reader,  if  he 
be  desirous  of  knowing  the  full  extent  of  the  penance  en- 
joined, may  consult  Lowth’s  Grammar,  p.  52,  ed.  1799;  and 
Harris’  ^ Hermes,’  pp.  10,  11,  and  12,  fourth  edition. 

Undismaj^ed  at  the  length  of  his  task,  Little  Dominick 
only  said — ^ I hope,  if  I say  it  all,  without  missing  a word, 
you  will  not  give  my  mother  a bad  account  of  me  and  my 
grammar  studies,  sir?  ” 

“ Say  it  all  first,  without  missing  a word,  and  then  I 
shall  see  Avhat  I shall  say,”  replied  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones. 

Even  the  encouragement  of  this  oracular  answer  excited 
the  boy’s  fond  hopes  so  keenly,  that  he  lent  his  little  soul 
to  the  task;  learned  it  perfectly;  said  it  at  night,  without 
missing  one  word,  to  his  friend  Edwards;  and  said  it  the 
next  morning,  without  missing  one  word,  to  his  master. 

“ And  now,  sir,”  said  the  boy,  looking  up,  “ will  you 
write  to  my  mother? — And  shall  I see  her?  And  shall  I go 
home?  ” 

“ Tell  me,  first,  whether  you  understand  all  this  that 
you  have  learned  so  cliply?  ” said  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones. 

That  was  more  than  his  bond.  Our  hero’s  countenance 
fell;  and  he  acknowledged  that  he  did  not  understand  it 
perfectly. 


1064 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Then  I cannot  write  a coot  account  of  you  and  your 
crammar  studies  to  your  mother;  my  conscience  coes 
against  it!  said  the  conscientious  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones. 

No  entreaties  could  move  him.  Dominick  never  saw 
the  letter  that  was  written  to  his  mother;  but  he  felt  the 
consequence.  She  wrote  word,  this  time  punctually  by  re- 
turn of  the  post,  that  she  was  sorry  she  could  not  send  for 
him  home  these  holidays,  as  she  had  heard  so  bad  an  ac- 
count from  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones,  &c.,  and  as  she  thought  it 
her  duty  not  to  interrupt  the  course  of  his  education, 
especially  his  grammar  studies. 

Little  Dominick  heaved  many  a sigh  when  he  saw  the 
packings  up  of  all  his  schoolfellows;  and  dropped  a few 
tears  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  saw  them,  one 
after  another,  get  on  their  Welsh  ponies,  and  gallop  off 
towards  their  homes. 

I have  no  home  to  go  to ! ” said  he. 

Yes,  you  have,’’  cried  Edwards;  and  our  horses  are 
at  the  door,  to  carry  us  there.’’ 

To  Ireland?  Me ! the  horses ! ” said  the  poor  boy,  quite 
bewildered. 

^‘No;  the  horses  cannot  carry  you  to  Ireland,”  said 
Edwards,  laughing  good-naturedly^;  but  you  have  a home, 
now,  in  England.  I asked  my  father  to  let  me  bring  you 
home  with  me ; and  he  says — ‘ Yes,’  like  a dear,  good 
father,  and  has  sent  the  horses — Come,  let ’s  away.” 

But  will  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  let  me  go?  ” 

Yes!  he  dare  not  refuse;  for  my  father  has  a living  in 
his  gift,  that  Owen  ap  Jones  wants,  and  which  he  will  not 
have  if  he  do  not  change  his  tune  to  you.” 

Little  Dominick  could  not  speak  one  word,  his  heart 
was  so  full. 

No  boy  could  be  happier  than  he  was  during  these  holi- 
days : the  genial  current  of  his  soul,”  which  had  been 

frozen  by  unkindness,  flowed  with  all  its  natural  freedom 
and  force. 

Whatever  his  reasons  might  be,  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones,  from 
this  time  forward,  was  observed  to  change  his  manners 
towards  his  Irish  pupil.  He  never  more  complained,  un- 
justly, of  his  preaking  Priscian’s  head;  seldom  called  him 
Irish  plockit;  and  once,  would  have  flogged  a Welsh  boy 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH 


1065 


for  taking  np  this  cast-off  expression  of  the  master^s  but 
that  the  Irish  blockhead  begged  the  culprit  off. 

Little  Dominick  sprang  forward  rapidly  in  his  studies ; 
he  soon  surpassed  every  boy  in  the  school,  his  friend  Ed- 
wards only  excepted.  In  process  of  time  his  guardian 
removed  him  to  a higher  seminary  of  education.  Edwards 
had  a tutor  at  home.  The  friends  separated.  Afterw^ards, 
they  followed  different  professions,  in  distant  parts  of  the 
world;  and  they  neither  saw,  nor  heard,  any  more  of  each 
other,  for  many  years. 

Dominick,  now  no  longer  little  Dominick,  went  over  to 
India,  as  private  secretary  to  one  of  our  commanders-in- 
chief.  How  he  got  into  this  situation,  or  by  what  grada- 
tions he  rose  in  the  world,  we  are  not  exactly  informed ; 
we  know  only  that  he  was  the  reputed  author  of  a much 
admired  pamphlet  on  India  affairs ; that  the  dispatches  of 
the  general  to  whom  he  was  secretary  were  remarkably 

well  written;  and  that  Dominick  OHeilly,  Esq.,  returned 
to  England,  after  several  years’  absence,  not  miraculously 

rich,  but  with  a fortune  equal  to  his  wishes.  His  wishes 
were  not  extravagant : his  utmost  ambition  was,  to  return 
to  his  native  country  with  a fortune  that  should  enable 

him  to  live  independently  of  all  the  world ; especially  of 
some  of  his  relations,  who  had  not  used  him  well.  His 
mother  was  no  more. 

On  his  first  arrival  in  London,  one  of  the  first  things 
he  did  was  to  read  the  Irish  newspapers.  To  his  inex- 

pressible joy  he  saw  the  estate  of  Fort  Reilly  advertised 
to  be  sold — the  very  estate  which  had  formerly  belonged 
to  his  own  family.  Away  he  posted,  directly,  to  an  attor- 
ney’s in  Cecil  Street,  who  was  empowered  to  dispose  of  the 
land. 

When  this  attorney  produced  a map  of  the  well-known 
demesne,  and  an  elevation  of  that  house  in  which  he  spent 
the  happiest  hours  of  his  infancy,  his  heart  was  so  touched, 

that  he  was  on  the  point  of  paying  down  more  for  an  old 

ruin  than  a good  new  house  would  cost.  The  attorney 

acted  honestly  hy  his  cUeiit,  and  seized  this  moment  to 
exhibit  a plan  of  the  stabling  and  offices;  which,  as  some- 
times is  the  case  in  Ireland,  were  in  a style  far  superior 
to  the  dwelling-house.  Our  hero  surveyed  these  with 

transport.  He  rapidly  planned  various  improvements  in 


1066 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


imagination,  and  planted  certain  favorite  spots  in  the  de- 
mesne! During  this  time  the  attorne}^  was  giving  direc- 
tions to  a clerk  about  some  other  business;  suddenly  the 
name  of  Owen  ap  Jones  struck  his  ear. — He  started. 

Let  him  wait  in  the  front  parlor : his  money  is  not 
forthcoming,’^  said  the  attorne}^,  and  if  he  keep  Edwards 
in  jail  till  he  rots — ” 

‘‘Edwards!  Good  heavens!  in  jail!  What  Edwards?” 
exclaimed  our  hero. 

It  was  his  friend  Edwards! 

The  attorney  told  him  that  Mr.  Edwards  had  been  in- 
volved in  great  distress,  by  taking  on  himself  his  father’s 
debts,  which  had  been  incurred  in  exploring  a mine  in 
Wales;  that,  of  all  the  creditors,  none  had  refused  to  com- 
pound, except  a Welsh  parson,  who  had  been  presented  to 
his  living  by  old  Edwards;  and  that  this  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones 
had  thrown  young  Mr.  Edwards  into  jail  for  the  debt. 

“What  is  the  rascal’s  demand?  He  shall  be  paid  off 
this  instant,”  cried  Dominick,  throwing  down  the  plan  of 
Fort  Reilly;  “ send  for  him  up,  and  let  me  pay  him  off  on 
this  spot.” 

“ Had  we  not  best  finish  our  business  first,  about  the 
O’Reilly  estate,  sir?  ” said  the  attorney. 

“ No,  sir;  damn  the  O’Reilly  estate!  ” cried  he,  huddling 
the  maps  together  on  the  desk;  and,  taking  up  the  bank- 
notes, which  he  had  begun  to  reckon  for  the  purchase 
money — “I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — if  you  knew  the  facts,' 
you  would  excuse  me. — Why  does  not  this  rascal  come  up 
to  be  paid?  ” 

The  attorney,  thunderstruck  by  this  Hibernian  impet- 
uosity, had  not  yet  found  time  to  take  his  pen  out  of  his 
mouth.  As  he  sat  transfixed  in  his  arm-chair,  O’Reilly 
ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  called  out,  in  a stentorian 
voice,  “Here,  you  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones;  come  up  and  be 
paid  off  this  instant,  or  you  shall  never  be  paid  at 

L^pstairs  hobbled  the  old  schoolmaster,  as  fast  as  the 
gout  and  Welsh  ale  would  let  him — “ Cot  pless  me,  that 
voice?  ” he  began — 

“ Where ’s  your  bond,  sir?  ” said  the  attorney. 

“ Safe  here.  Cot  be  praised ! ” said  the  terrified  Owen  ap 
Jones,  pulling  out  of  his  bosom  first  a blue  pocket-hand- 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1067 


kerchief,  and  then  a tattered  Welsh  grammer,  which  O’Reilly 
kicked  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

^^Here  is  my  pond,”  said  he,  ^^in  the  crammer,”  which  he 
gathered  from  the  ground;  then,  fumbling  over  the  leaves,  he 
at  length  unfolded  the  precious  deposit. 

O’Reilly  saw  the  bond,  seized  it,  looked  at  the  sum,  paid 
it  into  the  attorney’s  hands,  tore  the  seal  from  the  bond ; 
then,  without  looking  at  old  Owen  ap  J ones,  whom  he 
dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak  to,  he  clapped  his  hat  on 
his  head,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  He  was,  however, 
obliged  to  come  hack  again,  to  ask  where  Edwards  was  to 
be  found. 

^^In  the  King’s  Bench  prison,  sir,”  said  the  attorney.  ^Hut 
am  I to  understand,”  cried  he,  holding  up  the  map  of  the 
O’Reilly  estate,  ^^am  I to  understand  that  you  have  no  further 
wish  for  this  bargain?” 

^Wes — Ko — I mean,  you  are  to  understand  that  I’m  otf,” 
replied  our  hero,  without  looking  back — ^^I’m  off — That’s 
plain  English.” 

Arrived  at  the  King’s  Bench  prison,  he  hurried  to  the 
apartment  where  Edwards  was  confined — The  bolts  flew 
back ; for  even  the  turnkeys  seemed  to  catch  our  hero’s 
enthusiasm. 

^ ^Edwards,  my  dear  boy ! how  do  you  do  ? — Here’s  a bond 
debt,  justly  due  to  you  for  my  education — O,  never  mind 
asking  any  unnecessary  questions ; only  just  make  haste 
out  of  this  undeserved  abode — Our  old  rascal  is  paid  off — 
Owen  ap  Jones  you  know — Well  how  the  man  stares? — 
Why,  now,  will  you  have  the  assurance  to  pretend  to  forget 
who  I am? — and  must  I spake, continued  he,  assuming 
the  tone  of  his  childhood — ^%nd  must  I spake  to  you  again 
in  my  old  Irish  brogue,  before  you  will  ricollict  your  own 
Little  Dominick 

When  his  friend  Edwards  was  out  of  prison,  and  when 
our  hero  had  leisure  to  look  into  the  business,  he  returned 
to  the  attorney,  to  see  that  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  had  been 
satisfied. 

^Hir,”  said  the  attorney,  have  paid  the  plaintiff  in  this 
suit,  and  he  is  satisfied:  but  I must  say,”  added  he,  with  a 
contemptuous  smile,  ^That  you  Irish  gentlemen  are  rather  in 
too  great  a hurry  in  doing  business;  business,  sir,  is  a thing 
that  must  be  done  slowly,  to  be  well  done.” 


1068 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


I am  ready  now  to  do  business  as  slowly  as  you  please; 
but  when  my  friend  was  in  prison,  I thought  the  quicker 
I did  his  business  the  better.  Now  tell  me  what  mistake  I 
have  made,  and  I will  rectify  it  instantly.’’ 

Instantly ! ’T  is  well,  sir,  with  your  promptitude,  that 
you  have  to  deal  with  what  prejudice  thinks  so  very  un- 
common— an  honest  attorney.  Here  are  some  bank-notes 
of  yours,  sir,  amounting  to  a good  round  sum ! You  have 
made  a little  blunder  in  this  business:  you  left  me  the 
penalty,  instead  of  the  principal,  of  the  bond — just  twice 
as  much  as  you  should  have  done.” 

Just  twice  as  much  as  was  in  the  bond;  but  not  twice 
as  much  as  I should  have  done,  nor  half  as  much  as  I 
should  have  done,  in  my  opinion ! ” said  O’Reilly : but 

whatever  I did,  it  was  with  my  eyes  open.  I was  per- 
suaded you  were  an  honest  man ; in  which,  you  see,  I was 
not  mistaken;  and  as  a man  of  business,  I knew  that  you 
would  pay  Mr.  Owen  ap  Jones  only  his  due.  The  remain- 
der of  the  money  I meant,  and  now  mean,  should  lie  in  your 
hands  for  my  friend  Edwards’  use.  I feared  he  would  not 
have  taken  it  from  my  hands:  I therefore  left  it  in  yours. 
To  have  taken  my  friend  out  of  prison,  merely  to  let  him 
go  back  again  to-day,  for  want  of  money  to  keep  himself 
clear  with  the  world,  would  have  been  a blunder,  indeed! 
but  not  an  Irish  blunder:  our  Irish  blunders  are  never 
blunders  of  the  heart ! ” 


WASTE  NOT,  WANT  NOT. 

Mr.  Gresham,  a Bristol  merchant,  who  had,  by  honor- 
able industry  and  economy,  accumulated  a considerable 
fortune,  retired  from  business  to  a new  house  which  he  had 
built  upon  the  Downs,  near  Clifton.  Mr.  Gresham,  how- 
ever, did  not  imagine  that  a new  house  alone  could  make 
him  happy.  He  did  not  propose  to  live  in  idleness  and  ex- 
travagance; for  such  a life  would  have  been  equally  in- 
compatible with  his  habits  and  his  principles.  He  was 
fond  of  children ; and  as  he  had  no  sons,  he  determined  to 
adopt  one  of  his  relations.  He  had  tv^o  nephews,  and  he 
invited  both  of  them  to  his  house,  that  he  might  have  an 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 


1069 


opportunity  of  judging  of  their  dispositions,  and  of  the 
habits  which  they  had  acquired. 

Hal  and  Benjamin,  Mr.  Gresham’s  nephews,  were  each 
about  ten  years  old.  They  had  been  educated  very  differ- 
ently. Hal  was  the  son  of  the  elder  branch  of  the  family. 
His  father  was  a gentleman,  who  spent  rather  more  than 
he  could  afford ; and  Hal,  from  the  example  of  the  servants 
in  his  father’s  family,  with  whom  he  had  passed  the  first 
years  of  his  childhood,  learned  to  waste  more  of  everything 
than  he  used.  He  had  been  told,  that  gentlemen  should 
be  above  being  careful  and  saving;”  and  he  had  unfor- 
tunately imbibed  a notion  that  extravagance  was  the  sign 
of  a generous  disposition,  and  economy  of  an  avaricious 
one. 

Benjamin,  on  the  contrary,  had  been  taught  habits  of 
care  and  foresight.  His  father  had  but  a very  small  for- 
tune, and  was  anxious  that  his  son  should  early  learn  that 
economy  insures  independence,  and  sometimes  puts  it  in  the 
power  of  those  who  are  not  very  rich  to  be  very  generous. 

The  morning  after  these  two  boys  arrived  at  their 
uncle’s,  they  were  eager  to  see  all  the  rooms  in  the  house. 
Mr.  Gresham  accompanied  them,  and  attended  to  their 
remarks  and  exclamations. 

Oh ! what  an  excellent  motto ! ” exclaimed  Ben,  when 
he  read  the  following  words,  which  were  written  in  large 
characters  over  the  chimneypiece,  in  his  uncle’s  spacious 
kitchen : — 


WASTE  NOT,  WANT  NOT.” 

Waste  not,  want  not!”  repeated  his  cousin  Hal,  in 
rather  a contemptuous  tone;  I think  it  looks  stingy  to 
servants;  and  no  gentleman’s  servants,  cooks  especially, 
would  like  to  have  such  a mean  motto  always  staring  them 
in  the  face.”  Ben,  who  was  not  so  conversant  as  his  cousin 
in  the  ways  of  cooks  and  gentlemen’s  servants,  made  no 
reply  to  these  observations. 

Mr.  Gresham  was  called  away  whilst  his  nephews  were 
looking  at  the  other  rooms  in  the  house.  Some  time  after- 
wards he  heard  their  voices  in  the  hall. 

“Boys,”  said  he, “what  are  you  doing  there?”  “Nothing, 
sir,”  said  Hal ; “ you  were  called  away  from  us,  and  we  did 


1070 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


not  know  which  way  to  go.’’  “ And  have  you  nothing  to 
do?  ” said  Mr.  Gresham. 

No,  sir,  nothing,”  answered  Hal,  in  a careless  tone, 
like  one  who  was  well  content  with  the  state  of  habitual 
idleness. 

No,  sir,  nothing!  ” replied  Ben,  in  a voice  of  lamenta- 
tion. 

‘‘  Come,”  said  Mr.  Gresham,  if  you  have  nothing  to  do, 
lads,  will  you  unpack  these  two  parcels  for  me?  ” 

The  two  parcels  were  exactly  alike,  both  of  them  well 
tied  up  with  good  whip-cord.  Ben  took  his  parcel  to  a 
table,  and,  after  breaking  off  the  sealing-wax,  began  care- 
fully to  examine  the  knot,  and  then  to  untie  it.  Hal  stood 
still,  exactly  in  the  spot  where  the  parcel  was  put  into  his 
hands,  and  tried  first  at  one  corner,  and  then  at  another,  to 
pull  the  string  off  by  force. 

I wish  these  people  wouldn’t  tie  up  their  parcels  so 
tight,  as  if  they  were  never  to  be  undone,”  cried  he,  as  he 
tugged  at  the  cord;  and  he  pulled  the  knot  closer  instead 
of  loosening  it. 

‘‘Ben!  why,  how  did  you  get  yours  undone,  man? — 
.What’s  in  your  parcel? — I wonder  what  is  in  mine.  I 
wish  I could  get  this  string  off — I must  cut  it.” 

“ Oh,  no,”  said  Ben,  who  now  had  undone  the  last  knot 
of  his  parcel,  and  who  drew  out  the  length  of  string  with 
exultation,  “ don’t  cut  it,  Hal.  Look  what  a nice  cord  this 
is,  and  yours  is  the  same : it ’s  a pity  to  cut  it ; ‘ Waste  not, 
leant  not!’  you  know.” 

“ Pooh ! said  Hal,  what  signifies  a bit  of  pack- 
thread? ” 

“ It  is  whip-cord.” 

“ Well,  whip-cord ! what  signifies  a bit  of  whip-cord ! you 
can  get  a bit  of  whip-cord  twice  as  long  as  that  for  two- 
pence; and  who  cares  for  two-pence!  Not  I,  for  one!  so 
here  it  goes,”  cried  Hal,  drawing  out  his  knife;  and  he  cut 
the  cord,  precipitately,  in  sundry  places. 

“ Lads!  have  you  undone  the  parcels  for  me?  ” said  Mr. 
Gresham,  opening  the  parlor-door  as  he  spoke.  “ Yes,  sir,” 
cried  Hal;  and  he  dragged  off  his  half-cut,  half-entangled 
string, — “ here ’s  the  parcel.”  “ And  here ’s  my  parcel, 
uncle;  and  here’s  the  string,”  said  Ben.  “You  may  keep 
the  string  for  your  pains,”  said  Mr.  Gresham.  “ Thank 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH, 


1071 


you,  sir,”  said  Ben ; what  an  excellent  whip-cord  it  is ! ” 
And  you,  Hal,”  continued  Mr.  Gresham,  you  may  keep 
your  string  too,  if  it  will  be  of  any  use  to  you.”  It  will 
be  of  no  use  to  me,  thank  you,  sir,”  said  Hal.  No,  I am 
afraid  not,  if  this  be  it,”  said  his  uncle,  taking  up  the 
jagged,  knotted  remains  of  HaPs  cord. 

A few  days  after  this,  Mr.  Gresham  gave  to  each  of  his 
nephews  a new  top. 

But  how’s  this?”  said  Hal;  these  tops  have  no 
strings;  what  shall  we  do  for  strings?  ” I have  a string 
that  will  do  very  well  for  mine,”  said  Ben;  and  he  pulled 
out  of  his  pocket  the  fine,  long,  smooth  string  which  had 
tied  up  the  parcel.  With  this  he  soon  set  up  his  top,  which 
spun  admirabl^^  well. 

Oh,  how  I wish  I had  but  a string ! ” said  Hal ; what 
shall  I do  for  a string?  I ’ll  tell  you  what;  I can  use  the 
string  that  goes  round  my  hat ! ” But  then,”  said  Ben, 
what  will  you  do  for  a hat-band?  ” I ’ll  manage  to  do 
without  one,”  said  Hal;  and  he  took  the  string  off  his  hat 
for  his  top.  It  soon  was  worn  through;  and  he  split  his 
top  by  driving  the  peg  too  tightly  into  it.  His  cousin  Ben 
let  him  set  up  his  the  next  day;  but  Hal  was  not  more  for- 
tunate or  more  careful  when  he  meddled  with  other  peo- 
ple’s things  than  when  he  managed  his  own.  He  had 
scarcely  played  half  an  hour  before  he  split  it,  by  driving 
in  the  peg  too  violently. 

Ben  bore  this  misfortune  with  good  humor.  Come,” 
said  he,  it  can’t  be  helped : but  give  me  the  string,  because 
that  may  still  be  of  use  for  something  else.” 

It  happened  some  time  afterwards  that  a lady,  who  had 
been  intimately  acquainted  with  Hal’s  mother  at  Bath, 
now  arrived  at  Clifton.  She  was  informed  by  his  mother 
that  Hal  was  at  Mr.  Gresham’s;  and  her  sons,  who  were 
friends  of  his,  came  to  see  him,  and  invited  him  to  spend 
the  next  day  with  them. 

Hal  joyfully  accepted  the  invitation.  He  was  always 
glad  to  go  out  to  dine,  because  it  gave  him  something  to  do, 
something  to  think  of,  or  at  least  something  to  say.  Be- 
sides this,  he  had  been  educated  to  think  it  was  a fine  thing 
to  visit  fine  people ; and  Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes  ( for  that 
was  the  name  of  his  mother’s  acquaintance)  was  a very 
fine  lady,  and  her  two  sons  intended  to  be  very  great  gen- 


1072 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


tlemen.  He  was  in  a prodigious  hurry  when  these  young 
gentlemen  knocked  at  his  uncle’s  door  the  next  day;  but 
just  as  he  got  to  the  hall  door,  little  Patty  called  to  him 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  told  him  that  he  had  dropped 
his  pocket-handkerchief. 

Pick  it  up,  then,  and  bring  it  to  me,  quick,  can’t  you, 
child?”  cried  Hal,  for  Lady  Di’s  sons  are  waiting  for 
me.” 

Little  Patty  did  not  know  anything  about  Lady  Di’s 
sons;  but  she  was  very  good-natured,  and  saw  that  her 
cousin  Hal  was,  for  some  reason  or  other,  in  a desperate 
hurry,  so  she  ran  downstairs  as  fast  as  she  possibly  could, 
towards  the  landing-place,  where  the  handkerchief  lay; 
but,  alas!  before  she  reached  the  handkerchief,  she  fell, 
rolling  down  a whole  flight  of  stairs,  and  when  her  fall 
was  at  last  stopped  by  the  landing-place,  she  did  not  cry, 
but  she  writhed  as  if  she  was  in  great  pain. 

Where  are  you  hurt,  my  love?  ” said  Mr.  Gresham,  who 
came  instantly,  on  hearing  the  noise  of  some  one  falling 
downstairs.  Where  are  you  hurt,  my  dear?  ” 

Here,  papa,”  said  the  little  girl,  touching  her  ankle; 

I believe  I am  hurt  here,  but  not  much,”  added  she,  trying 
to  rise;  only  it  hurts  me  when  I move.”  I ’ll  carry  you; 
don’t  move,  then,”  said  her  father;  and  he  took  her  up  in 
his  arms.  My  shoe;  I ’ve  lost  one  of  my  shoes,”  said  she. 

Ben  looked  for  it  upon  the  stairs,  and  he  found  it  stick- 
ing in  a loop  of  whip-cord,  which  was  entangled  round  one 
of  the  banisters.  When  this  cord  was  drawn  forth,  it  ap- 
peared that  it  was  the  very  same  jagged  entangled  piece 
which ‘Hal  had  pulled  off  his  parcel.  He  had  diverted  him- 
self with  running  up  and  downstairs,  whipping  the  banis- 
ters with  it,  for  he  thought  he  could  convert  it  to  no  better 
use;  and,  with  his  usual  carelessness,  he  at  last  left  it  hang- 
ing just  where  he  happened  to  throw  it  when  the  dinner- 
bell  rang.  Poor  little  Patty’s  ankle  was  terribly  sprained, 
and  Hal  reproached  himself  for  his  folly,  and  would  have 
reproached  himself  longer,  perhaps,  if  Lady  Di  Sweep- 
stakes’  sons  had  not  hurried  him  away. 


RICHARD  LOVELL  EDGEWORTH. 


(1744—1817.) 

Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth,  an  elegant  writer  and  an  ingenious 
mechanic,  was  born  in  1744,  at  Edgeworthtown,  County  Longford, 
Ireland,  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  at  Oxford. 
Being  of  a mechanical  turn  of  mind,  he  spent  much  time  in  experi- 
ments, and  invented  many  ingenious  devices,  among  them  a tele- 
graph. He  was  a member  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  and  with 
other  Irish  patriots  opposed  the  Union.  He  gave  great  attention 
to  education  and  the  most  practical  modes  of  diffusing  it. 

In  conjunction  with  his  talented  daughter,  Maria,  he  wrote  a series 
of  essays  on  ‘ Practical  Education,’  and  also  published  a series  of 
stories  for  the  young  with  the  same  view.  He  wrote  a work  on 
‘Roads  and  Carriages,’ and  began  his  own  memoirs,  which  were 
finished  by  his  daughter.  He  was  a man  of  varied  talent,  great 
practical  knowledge,  and  philanthropic  aims.  He  died  at  Edge- 
worthtown, in  June,  1817. 

MY  BOYHOOD  DAYS. 

From  ‘ Memoirs  of  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth,  Esq.’ 

When  I was  between  two  and  three  years  old,  I was  car- 
ried over,  with  my  father  and  mother,  to  Ireland,  to  their 
house  at  Edgeworthtown,  in  the  county  of  Longford.  I 
remember  distinctly  several  small  circumstances,  which 
happened  before  I was  four  years  old.  This  I notice,  be- 
cause the  possibility  of  remembering  from  so  early  an  age 
has  been  doubted.  When  I was  about  five  years  old,  I was 
taught  my  alphabet:  I remember  well  the  appearance  of 
my  hornbook;  and  once  I was  beaten  for  not  knowing  the 
word  instep.  I recollect  as  distinctly  as  if  it  happened 
yesterday,  that  I had  never  before  heard  or  spelled  that 
word.  This  unjust  chastisement  put  me  back  a little  in 
my  learning;  but  as  the  injustice  was  afterwards  discov- 
ered, it  saved  me  in  succeeding  times  from  all  violence  from 
my  teachers.  My  mother  then  taught  me  to  read  herself. 
I lent  my  little  soul  to  the  business,  and  I read  fluently 
before  I was  six  years  old.  The  first  books  that  were  put 
into  my  hands  were  the  Old  Testament,  and  >Esop’s  Fables. 
iEsop’s  Fables  were  scarcely  intelligible  to  me:  the  frogs 
and  their  kings, — the  fox  with  the  bunch  of  grapes,  con- 

1073 


13— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1074 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


fused  my  understanding ; and  the  satyr  and  the  traveler  ap- 
peared to  me  absolute  nonsense.  I understood  the  lion  and 
the  mouse,  and  was  charmed  with  the  generous  conduct  of 
the  one,  and  with  the  gratitude  of  the  other. 

When  I began  to  read  the  Old  Testament,  the  creation 
made  a great  impression  upon  my  mind : I personified  the 
Deity  as  is  usual  with  ignorance.  A particular  part  of  my 
father’s  garden  was  Paradise : my  imagination  represented 
Adam  as  walking  in  this  garden;  and  the  whole  history 
became  a drama  in  my  mind.  I pitied  Adam,  was  angry 
with  Eve,  and  I most  cordially  hated  the  devil.  What 
was  meant  by  Adam’s  bruising  the  serpent’s  head,  I could 
not  comprehend,  and  I frequently  asked  for  explanations. 
The  history  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren  I perfectly  under- 
stood, it  seized  fast  hold  of  my  imagination,  and  of  my 
feelings.  I admired  and  loved  Joseph  with  enthusiasm; 
and  I believe,  that  the  impression,  which  this  history  made 
upon  my  mind,  continued  for  many  years  to  have  an  in- 
fluence upon  my  conduct. 

My  only  playfellow  in  my  early  childhood  was  my  young- 
est sister  Margaret;  my  elder  sister  was  four  years  older 
than  I was.  The  early  attachment  which  was  formed  be- 
tween my  sister  Margaret  (now  Mrs.  John  Ruxton)  and 
me,  has  been  one  of  the  most  constant  sources  of  pleasure 
that  I have  ever  possessed.  There  was  and  is  a great  re- 
semblance in  our  tempers,  and  characters,  and  tastes.  I 
know  how  highly  I praise  myself  in  saying  this,  but  it  must 
be  true,  or  we  could  not  through  so  many  different  scenes 
of  life  have  preserved  as  perfect  a friendship  and  affection 
for  each  other,  as  ever  existed  between  brother  and  sister. 
We  were  constant  playfellows,  and  such  constant  friends, 
that  for  much  more  than  half  a century  the  most  violent, 
indeed  I may  say  the  only  quarrel,  that  we  ever  had,  was 
upon  the  following  important  occasion. 

The  gardener  gave  us  some  playthings,  made  of  rushes; 
the  good-natured  old  man  presented  them  to  us  with  much 
complacency,  and  divided  them  with  impartiality.  A grid- 
iron he  gave  to  little  Miss;  to  little  Master,  a grenadier’s 
cap.  Little  Miss,  however,  was  not  pleased  with  the  dis- 
tribution; she  insisted  upon  having  the  grenadier’s  cap, 
which,  after  some  reluctance  on  Master’s  part,  she  ob- 
tained : but,  after  having  strutted  her  little  hour  under  this 


RICHARD  LOVELL  EDGEWORTH, 


1075 


heroic  accoutrement,  she  became  covetous  of  the  more  use- 
ful implement,  with  which  she  had  seen  me  amusing  my- 
self. I had  fried  the  gold  fish  that  were  caught  in  the 
lake  of  the  pond  of  the  Black  Islands;  and  I had  gone 
through  a considerable  part  of  the  story  of  the  prince  half 
marble  and  half  man,  as  I had  lately  read  it  in  the  Arabian 
Nights,  Entertainments.  I was  in  the  character  of  the 
Black  Genius,  exclaiming,  Fish ! fish ! do  your  duty  — 
when  my  sister  insisted  that  she  ought  to'  be  the  cook.  I 
told  her  there  were  men  cooks,  but  not  female  grenadiers. 
We  disputed;  we  grew  angry;  we  proceeded  to  violence;  a 
battle  ensued,  in  which  the  grenadiers  cap  was  beaten  to 
pieces.  Loud  were  the  lamentations.  My  mother  heard 
the  disturbance;  and,  instead  of  what  is  commonly  called 
scolding  us,  took  pains  to  do  justice  between  us,  and 
brought  us  to  reason  and  peace,  by  mildly  pointing  out  the 
folly  of  our  quarrel.  It  is  often  from  disputes  like  these, 
that  children  learn  the  consequences  of  passion,  and  the 
danger  of  giving  way  to  it ; and  it  is  by  the  impartial  and 
judicious  conduct  of  parents,  on  such  seemingly  trival  oc- 
casions, that  they  may  begin  to  form  the  temper  to  habits 
of  self-command. 

Of  this  sister  of  mine  I may  say,  that  she  has  an  uncom- 
monly good  temper,  and  she  is  as  little  inclined  to  violence 
as  any  of  the  gentlest  of  her  sex.  My  mother  took  various 
means  early  to  give  me  honorable  feelings  and  good  prin- 
ciples ; and  by  these  she  endeavored  to  correct,  and  to  teach 
me  to  govern,  the  violence  of  my  natural  temper.  She  was 
lame,  and  not  able  to  subdue  me  by  force:  if  I ran  away 
from  her  when  she  was  going  to  punish  me,  she  could  not 
follow  and  catch  me;  but  she  obtained  such  power  over  my 
mind,  that  she  induced  me  to  come  to  her  to  be  punished 
whenever  she  required  it.  I resigned  myself,  and  without 
a struggle  submitted  to  the  chastisement  she  thought  prop- 
er to  infiict.  The  consequence  of  this  submission  was  my 
acquiring,  if  I may  say  so,  the  esteem  as  well  as  the 
affection  of  my  mother.  But  she  was  not  blind  to  my 
faults:  she  saw  the  danger  of  my  passionate  temper.  It 
was  a difficult  task  to  correct  it ; though  perfectly  submis- 
sive to  her,  I was  with  others  rebellious  and  outrageous  in 
my  anger.  My  mother  heard  continual  complaints  of  me; 
yet  she  wisely  forebore  to  lecture  or  punish  me  for  every 


1076 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


trifling  misdemeanor ; she  seized  proper  occasions  to  make 
a strong  impression  upon  my  mind. 

One  day,  my  elder  brother  Tom,  who,  as  I have  said,  was 
almost  a man  when  I was  a little  child,  came  into  the  nur- 
sery where  I was  placing,  and  where  the  maids  were  iron- 
ing. Upon  some  slight  provocation  or  contradiction  from 
him,  I flew  into  a violent  passion;  and,  snatching  up  one 
of  the  box-irons,  which  the  maid  had  just  laid  down,  I flung 
it  across  the  table  at  my  brother.  He  stooped  instantly; 
and,  thank  God ! it  missed  him.  There  was  a red-hot 
heater  in  it,  of  which  I knew  nothing  until  I saw  it  thrown 
out,  and  till  I heard  the  scream  from  the  maids.  They 
seized  me,  and  dragged  me  downstairs  to  my  mother. 
Knowing  that  she  Avas  extremely  fond  of  my  brother,  and 
that  she  was  of  a Avarm  indignant  temper,  they  expected 
that  signal  vengeance  Avould  burst  upon  me.  They  all  spoke 
at  once.  When  my  mother  heard  what  I had  done,  I saw 
she  was  struck  with  horror,  but  she  said  not  one  word  in 
anger  to  me.  She  ordered  everybody  out  of  the  room  ex- 
cept myself,  and  then  drawing  me  near  her,  she  spoke  to 
me  in  a mild  .voice,  but  in  a most  serious  manner.  First,  she 
explained  to  me  the  nature  of  the  crime,  which  I had  run 
the  hazard  of  committing;  she  told  me,  she  was  sure  that 
I had  no  intention  seriously  to  hurt  my  brother,  and  did 
not  know,  that  if  the  iron  had  hit  my  brother,  it  must 
have  killed  him.  While  I felt  this  flrst  shock,  and  whilst 
the  horror  of  murder  was  upon  me,  my  mother  seized  the 
moment,  to  conjure  me  to  try  in  future  to  command  my 
passions. 

I remember  her  telling  me,  that  I had  an  uncle  by  the 
mother’s  side  who  had  such  a violent  temper,  that  in  a flt 
of  passion  one  of  his  eyes  actually  started  out  of  its 
socket.  You,”  said  my  mother  to  me,  “ have  naturally  a 
violent  temper : if  you  groAV  uj)  to  be  a man  without  learn- 
ing to  goAwn  it,  it  will  be  impossible  for  you  then  to  com- 
mand yourself;  and  there  is  no  knowing  what  crime  you 
may  in  a fit  of  passion  commit,  and  how  miserable  you  may 
in  consequence  of  it  become.  You  are  but  a very  young 
child,  yet  I think  you  can  understand  me.  Instead  of 
speaking  to  you  as  I do  at  this  moment,  I might  punish  you 
severely;  but  I think  it  better  to  treat  you  like  a reasonable 
creature.  My  wish  is  to  teach  you  to  command  your  tern- 


RICHARD  LOVELL  EDGEWORTH. 


1077 


per;  nobody  can  do  that  for  you,  so  well  as  you  can  do  it 
for  yourself.’’ 

As  nearly  as  I can  recollect,  these  were  my  mother’s 
words;  I am  certain  this  was  the  sense  of  what  she  then 
said  to  me.  The  impression  made  by  the  earnest  solemnity 
with  which  she  spoke  never,  during  the  Avhole  course  of 
my  life,  was  effaced  from  my  mind.  From  that  moment  I 
determined  to  govern  my  temper.  The  determinations 
and  the  good  resolutions  of  a boy  of  between  five  and  six 
years  old  are  not  much  to  be  depended  upon,  and  I do  not 
mean  to  boast  that  mine  were  thenceforward  uniformly 
kept;  but  I am  conscious  that  my  mother’s  warning  fre- 
quently recurred  to  me,  when  I felt  the  passion  of  anger  ris- 
ing within  me;  and  that  both  whilst  I was  a child,  and  after 
I became  a man,  these  her  words  of  early  advice  had  most 
powerful  and  salutary  influence  in  restraining  my  temper. 

Of  the  further  rudiments  of  my  education  I recollect 
only  that  I was  taught  arithmetic,  and  made  expert  in 
counting  at  the  card  table,  when  my  father  and  mother 
used  to  play  cribbage.  The  attention  to  teach  me  numbers 
was  bestowed  particularly,  because  my  father,  not  being 
infected  with  that  foolish  pride,  which  renders  parents 
averse  to  the  idea  of  putting  a son  into  business  or  com- 
merce, destined  me  for  a merchant.  . . . 

My  mother  inspired  me  with  a love  of  truth,  a dislike  of 
low  company,  and  an  admiration  of  whatever  was  generous. 
Fortunately  for  me,  the  few  visitors  who  frequented  our 
house  seemed  to  join  with  her  in  a wish  to  instil  generous 
sentiments.  One  lady  in  particular,  who,  as  I observed, 
was  treated  by  my  mother  with  much  respect,  made  a salu- 
tary impression  upon  me.  She  gave  me  Gay’s  Fables  with 
prints,  with  which  I was  much  delighted;  and  desired  me 
to  get  by  heart  the  fable  of  the  Lion  and  the  Cub.  She 
explained  to  me  the  design  of  this  fable,  which  was  within 
the  compass  of  my  understanding.  It  gave  me  early  the 
notion,  that  I ought  to  dislike  low  company,  and  to  despise 
the  applause  of  the  vulgar.  Some  traits  in  the  history  of 
Cyrus,  which  was  read  to  me,  seized  my  imagination,  and, 
next  to  Joseph  in  the  Old  Testament,  Cyrus  became  the 
favorite  of  my  childhood.  My  sister  and  I used  to  amuse 
ourselves  with  playing  Cyrus  at  the  court  of  his  grand- 
father Astyages.  At  the  great  Persian  feasts  I was,  like 


1078 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


young  Cyrus,  to  set  an  example  of  temperance,  to  eat  noth- 
ing but  water-cresses,  to  drink  nothing  but  water,  and  to 
reprove  the  cup-bearer  for  making  the  king  my  grandfather 
drunk.  To  this  day  I remember  the  taste  of  those  water- 
cresses;  and  for  those  who  love  to  trace  the  characters  of 
men  in  the  sports  of  children  I may  mention,  that  my 
character  for  sobriety,  if  not  for  water  drinking,  has  con- 
tinued through  life. 

At  seven  years  old,  I became  very  devout.  I had  heard 
some  of  the  New  Testament,  and  some  account  of  the  suffer- 
ings of  martyrs;  these  inflamed  mj  imagination  so  much, 
that  I remember  weeping  bitterly  before  I was  eight  years 
old,  because  I lived  at  a time  when  I had  no  opportunity 
of  being  a martyr.  I however  dared  to  think  for  myself. 
— My  father  was  about  this  time  enclosing  a garden ; part 
of  the  wall  in  its  progress  afforded  means  of  climbing  to 
the  top  of  it,  which  I soon  effected.  My  father  repri- 
manded me  severely,  and  as  no  fruit  was  at  that  time  ripe, 
he  could  not  readily  conceive  what  motive  I could  have 
for  taking  so  much  trouble,  and  running  so  great  a risk.  I 
told  him  truly,  that  I had  no  motive  but  the  pleasure  of 
climbing.  I added,  that  if  the  garden  Avere  full  of  ripe 
peaches,  it  Avould  be  a much  greater  temptation;  and  that 
unless  he  should  be  certain  that  nobody  tvould  climb  over 
the  wall,  he  ought  not  to  have  peaches  in  the  garden. 
After  having  talked  to  me  for  some  time,  he  discoA^ered  that 
I had  reasoned  thus : if  my  father  knows  beforehand,  that 
the  temptation  of  peaches  will  necessarily  induce  me  to 
climb  OA^er  the  garden  wall;  and  that  if  I do,  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  I shall  break  my  neck,  I shall  not  be 
guilty  of  any  crime,  but  my  father  will  be  the  cause  of  my 
breaking  my  neck.  This  I applied  to  Adam,  without  at 
the  time  being  able  to  perceive  the  great  difference  betAA^een 
things  human  and  divine.  My  father,  feeling  that  he  was 
not  prepared  to  give  me  a satisfactory  ansAver  to  this  dif- 
ficulty, judiciously  declined  the  contest,  and  desired  me 
not  to  meddle  with  Avhat  Avas  above  my  comprehension.  I 
mention  this,  because  all  parents,  who  encourage  their 
children  to  speak  freely,  often  hear  from  them  puzzling 
questions  and  observations,  and  I wish  to  point  out,  that 
on  such  occasions  children  should  not  be  discouraged,  but 


RICHARD  LOVELL  EDGEWORTH, 


1079 


on  the  contrary,  according  to  the  advice  of  Rousseau,  par- 
ents should  fairly  and  truly  confess  their  ignorance. 

So  strong  were  my  religious  feelings  at  this  time  of  my 
life,  that  I strenuously  believed,  that  if  I had  sufficient 
faith,  I could  remove  mountains ; and  accordingly  I prayed 
for  the  objects  of  my  childish  wishes  with  the  utmost  fer- 
vency, and  with  the  strongest  persuasion  that  my  prayers 
would  be  heard.  How  long  the  fervor  of  this  sort  of  devo- 
tion lasted  I do  not  remember ; but  I suppose  that  going  to 
school  insensibly  allayed  it. 


MAURICE  F.  EGAN. 


(1852  ) 

Maurice  Francis  Egan,  professor  of  English  language  and  litera- 
ture at  the  Catholic  University  of  Washington,  was  born  in  1852 
and  was  educated  at  La  Salle  College  and  Georgetown,  D.  C.  He 
was  successively  sub-editor  of  McGee's  Illustrated  Weekly  and  The 
Catholic  Review,  and  editor  of  Freeman^ s Journal ; afterward  he 
became  professor  of  English  literature  in  the  University  of  Notre 
Dame,  Indiana,  and  was  also  one  of  the  editors  of  the  ‘ World’s  Best 
Literature.  ’ 

He  has  written  the  following  books  : ‘ That  Girl  of  Mine,’  ‘ That 
Lover  of  Mine,’  ‘ A Garden  of  Roses,’  ‘ Stories  of  Duty,’  ‘ The  Life 
Around  Us,’  ‘ The  Theater  and  Christian  Parents,’  ‘ Modern  Novelists,’ 
‘ Lectures  on  English  Literature,’  ‘ A Gentleman,’  ‘ Jack  Chumleigh,’ 
‘ Jack  Chumleigh  at  Boarding  School,’  ‘ A Primer  of  English  Litera- 
ture,’ ‘ The  Disappearance  of  John  Longworthy,’  ‘A  Marriage  of 
Reason,’  ‘The  Success  of  Patrick  Desmond,’  ‘The  Flower  of  the 
Flock,’  ‘Preludes’  (poems),  ‘ Songs  and  Sonnets  and  other  Poems,’ 
‘The  Vocation  of  Edward  Conway,’  ‘The  Chatelaine  of  the  Roses,’ 
‘Jasper  Thorne,’  ‘In  a Brazilian  Forest,’  ‘The  Leopard  of  Lanci- 
anus,’  ‘ Studies  in  Literature,’  ‘The  Watson  Girls.’ 

THE  ORANGE  LILIES. 

From  ‘ From  the  Land  of  St.  Lawrence.’ 

When  Neil  Durnan^s  wife  died,  there  was  no  lonelier 
man  in  the  County  Meath.  His  farm  was  in  good  condi- 
tion. He  was  not,  in  the  estimation  of  elderly  men,  old; 
be  was  healthy,  and  he  had  seen  triumphant  Orangemen 
defeated  in  his  lifetime,  over  and  over  again.  He  was  a 
very  warm  farmer.  His  elder  son  was  a Franciscan 
friar  over  in  Italy;  his  younger  had  gone  to  America.  The 
first  was  out  of  his  world;  he  had  never  quite  forgiven 
Friar  Francis,  who,  after  the  education  he  had,  might  have 
been  a decent  parish  priest  at  home,  for  joining  the 
beggars,’’  as  he  called  the  members  of  the  great  Order. 
The  younger  son,  Maurice,  was  in  America, — in  a place 
called  Wisconsin.  Father  and  son  had  never  got  on  well 
together.  They  both  had  strong  opinions ; so  one  day,  with 
a hundred  pounds  to  his  credit,  Maurice  went  over  the  sea, 
and  the  father’s  heart  had  ached  ever  since,  though  he  had 
not  shown  this  in  word  or  deed. 

1080 


MAURICE  F.  EGAN. 


1081 


It  was  this  heartache  that  made  him  look  seaward.  His 
old  neighbors  were  gone.  To  the  farm  on  his  left  had  come 
a Belfast  man  who  kept  hunters,  whose  wife  and  daughters 
went  about  dropping  pieces  of  pasteboard  at  their  neigh- 
bors.’^ 

It ’s  on  wheels  they  come,”  he  said,  and  them  calling 
themselves  decent  women,  and  then  drop  a handful  of 
pasteboards  with  their  names  on  them.  And  there  are 
afternoon  tays  and  feet  champeeters  and  few  de  joys  going 
on  all  the  time,  and  him  an  Orange  squireen  of  a fellow, 
with  his  garden  full  of  yellow  lilies,  just  to  spite  the  likes 
of  me  on  the  twelfth  of  July.” 

His  neighbor  on  the  right  was  not  the  less  obnoxious; 
he  had  acquired  poor  Pat  Dolan’s  farm,  and  was  making  it 
pay  by  means  of  all  sort  of  new-fangled  machinery. 

Taking  the  bread  out  of  poor  men’s  mouths,”  the  ag- 
grieved Mr.  Durnan  said ; sure,  what  right  has  he  to  do 
that?  Pat  Dolan  would  have  cut  off  his  finger  before  he 
turned  a man  from  his  day’s  work, — and  he  turned  out  of 
the  farm  his  grandfather  had  before  him,  just  because  he 
was  too  kind  and  generous  to  his  own  people.” 

The  sight  of  the  squireen’s  women  folk,  on  wheels,  with 
cardcases  in  their  hands,  was  an  evil  thing,  the  farm 
machinery  was  worse,  but  the  front  garden  with  its  orange 
lilies  worst  of  all. 

And  when  I remarked  to  that  woman,”  says  I,  the 
orange  lilies,  saving  your  presence,  ma’am,  are  symbolical 
of  the  devil  himself  and  of  all  Orange  haythen,  — what 
did  she  say  in  a high  English  voice,  but  ^ Oh,  Mr.  Durnan, 
you  ’re  so  old-fashioned ! We  must  forget  old  feuds.’  And 
the  likes  of  her  keeping  them  up  with  their  orange  lilies ! ” 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  enormous  mastiff  that  guarded 
the  Squire’s  house  at  night,  he  would  have  made  short  work 
of  the  masses  of  bloom  that  glowed  in  a hundred  tints 
of  yellow,  like  coiled,  jeweled  snakes,  in  the  center  of  his 
neighbor’s  lawn.  As  it  was,  he  was  helpless;  the  splendid 
flowers  were  a menace,  a threat,  a hated  blot  on  the  land- 
scape. Finally  he  could  endure  them  no  more;  he  made  a 
good  bargain  in  the  sale  of  his  farm,  and  then  a struggle 
began  within  him.  Should  he  go  to  his  son? — to  this  in- 
dependent son  of  his,  who  had  gone  off  with  the  portion  his 
mother  had  a right  to  give  him,  refusing  aught  else;  who 


1082 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


had  married  a Yankee;  who — and  this  made  Neil  Dur- 
nan  feel  very  bitter — had  never  asked  for  anything,  and 
who — and  this  made  the  bitterness  more  bitter — -might  be 
better  off  in  this  world’s  goods  than  he  was? 

If  Maurice  had  come  to  him,  poor,  suppliant,  he  would 
have  clasped  him  in  his  arms,  and  killed  the  fatted  calf, 
and  sent  out  for  all  the  purple  and  fine  linen  to  be  brought. 
If  he  should  find  Maurice  with  his  three  little  children, 
suffering,  poor,  in  need  of  help,  his  heart  and  his  hand 
would  go  out  to  them  with  all  the  force  of  a strong  nature. 
But  the  thought  that  Maurice  might  be  “ warmer  ” than  he, 
rejoicing  perhaps  in  all  those  new  machines  which  he  so 
much  detested,  filled  him  with  anger.  Rumors  had  come 
to  him  of  the  prosperity  of  Maurice  in  that  far-off  Wiscon- 
sin; he  had  pretended  to  doubt  them;  he  had  smiled  when 
hints  of  this  prosperity  had  appeared  in  the  letters  the  son 
wrote  to  his  mother,  but  he  feared  they  w^ere  true. 

Three  sons,  and  one  dead,”  he  murmured,  and  not  one 
of  them  named  for  me.  Sure,  he  sent  word  to  ask  me 
once  as  to  the  naming  of  his  first  one,  but  I said,  ^ No, — 
’t  was  unbefitting  that  a child  of  his  Yankee  wife  should 
be  named  for  me.’  I did  not  mean  it,  but  I suppose  they 
thought  I did.” 

Love,  which  was  warm  at  the  core  of  the  old  man’s 
heart,  conquered  at  last^  and  on  Sunday  before  he  started 
for  Queenstown,  he  achieved  a victory  over  himself.  It 
was  the  day  on  which  the  Blue  Ribbon  Society  went  to 
Communion.  He  had  a grudge  against  one  member,  whose 
father  had  been  a Scotchman,  and  whose  mother  was  a 
County  Meath  woman ; the  son  called  himself  Scotch-Irish. 
He  had  always  avoided  walking  in  the  procession  next  to 
this  man,  though  once  or  twice  he  had  been  paired  with 
him.  But  on  this  morning  he  took  his  place  beside  him. 
It  was  hard;  but  he  did  not  wince. 

I ’ve  done  he  said,  when  it  was  over,  and  now 

I can  stand  anything ! ” 

Over  the  ocean,  through  New  York  and  Chicago,  Neil 
Durnan  sped.  He  cared  neither  for  the  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
nor  Niagara  Falls,  nor  the  great  buildings  in  the  western 
metropolis;  he  was  intent  on  his  son, — full  of  love,  full  of 
envy,  jealous  as  any  father  could  be,  and  hoping  that  a 
cyclone  or  some  horror  might  have  made  this  proud  son  of 


MAURICE  F.  EGAN, 


1083 


his  dependent  on  him.  Of  what  use  was  the  goodly  sum 
to  his  credit  in  the  bank,  if  Maurice  had  a greater  sum? 

He  found  Maurice  grave,  cordial,  quiet;  a man  of  con- 
sequence, and  of  sound  judgment ; he  was  large,  handsome, 
red-haired, — of  the  type  of  his  mother.  The  old  man’s 
worst  fears  were  fulfilled:  the  Wisconsin  farm  of  over 
five  hundred  acres  was  in  perfect  condition.  And,  in  this 
month  of  July,  all  modern  appliances  were  in  use  to  de- 
velop its  richness. 

Neil  Human  had  to  go  to  his  comfortable  room,  to  groan 
and  almost  to  weep.  The  spectacle  of  his  proud  son’s 
success,  in  which  he  had  no  hand,  was  like  a dagger  to  his 
heart.  His  three  grandsons  were  called  Lewis,  John,  and 
Maurice, — not  one  Neil  among  them.  His  son’s  wife  was 
very  sweet  in  her  manner  to  him,  too  much  of  a lady, 
entirely,”  he  said.  There  was  no  denying  that  his  grand- 
sons were  fine,  affectionate  little  boys,  well  instructed  in 
their  religion.  The  smallest  of  the  three  was  gentle,  and 
somewhat  delicate, — like  the  one  that  died,”  his  mother 
said,  softly.  Neil  found  great  consolation  in  this  boy. 
He  told  him  of  the  leprechauns,  and  of  all  the  wonderful 
things  that  happened  over  in  Ireland,  in  the  old  days. 
Still  his  heart  was  bitter;  he  would  not  pray;  his  beads 
hung  against  the  wall,  untouched.  His  son  had  dared  to 
make  for  himself  a world  of  his  own, — and  he  was  outside 
of  it. 

He  had  promised  to  meet  his  little  grandson  at  a stream 
near  the  graveyard ; the  church,  red  brick,  with  a Gothic 
tower,  was  at  the  edge  of  his  son’s  farm.  In  this  stream 
grandfather  and  grandson  fished  with  the  gaudy  flies 
brought  from  Ireland.  During  the  long,  sultry  afternoons, 
this  spot,  covered  by  great  spruce  trees,  was  cool,  and 
though  not  even  a minnow  bit  at  the  elaborate  flies,  the  two 
were  happy.  On  this  afternoon  the  little  boy  came,  flushed 
and  bright-eyed,  carrying  a bunch  of  orange  lilies. 

For  you,  grandpapa ! ” he  called  out. 

Neil  Human  stood  like  a bull  at  the  sight  of  red.  Then 
he  tore  the  obnoxious  flowers  from  the  child’s  hand,  threw 
them  upon  the  ground,  and  trampled  upon  them.  The  boy 
opened  his  blue  eyes,  horrified,  amazed,  by  the  angry  face 
and  brutal  gestures  of  his  grandfather. 


1084 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


O grandpapa ! he  cried,  how  can  you ! They  were 
for  you ; I gathered  them  at — 

But  Neil  Durnan  had  gone  off,  muttering.  Everywhere 
he  was  to  endure  insults,  and  from  his  own  kin ! 

My  son  did  this,’^  he  said,  bitterly,  or  his  Yankee 
wife ! 

He  strode  into  the  graveyard,  not  knowing  where  he 
was.  He  would  leave  this  place;  he  would  go  at  once,  he 
resolved.  And  when  he  resolved  to  act  in  any  matter,  it 
was  hard  to  move  him.  He  would  not  say  good-bye ; a cold 
hand  seemed  to  clutch  at  his  heart  as  he  thought  of  the 
tear-filled  eyes  of  the  little  Maurice;  but  he  would  go, — 
and  at  once. 

There  Avas  a trailing  mock-orange  vine  in  his  path,  and 
as  he  made  his  next  step,  a tendril-coil  of  it  caught  his 
foot ; he  went  doAvn,  and  lay  for  a moment  prone,  in  a bed 
of  the  splendid  yelloAA^-and-red  fioAvers  his  heart  detested. 
He  tore  them  aAA  ay  from  him,  and  saw  that  they  clustered 
about  a small  stone  cross ; he  read 


Neil  Duknan: 
AGED  TWELVE  t 1896. 
MAY  HE  REST  IN  PEACE. 


“ Neil  Durnan ! His  proud  son  had  indeed  named  the 
dead  little  boy  for  him.  He  forgot  the  yellow  splendor 
about  him,  and  read  the  name  again;  tears  ran  doAvn  his 
wind-reddened  cheeks.  He  knelt  for  a moment;  then  he 
plucked  a handful  of  the  flowers  that  grew  on  this  sacred 
grave,  those  hated  flowers  that  dotted  in  a dozen  places  the 
green  of  the  graA^eyard.  He  clasped  the  long  leaA^es  almost 
tenderly,  and  went  back  to  the  place  Avhere  his  little  grand- 
son had  begun  to  fish,  in  a sober  and  subdued  Avay,  with  the 
gorgeous  flies. 

“ Here,  Maurice,^’  he  said,  are  some  of  the  flowers  you 
brought  me  just  now.  I know  AAdiere  you  got  them.  Tell 
me  about  your  little  brother — Neil.’^  The  old  man^s  voice 
choked. 

Maurice  smiled  brightly,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  dear, 
little  brother  who  had  died  almost  a year  ago.  And  so 


MAURICE  F.  EGAN. 


1085 


they  sat  there,  lovingly,  the  whole  twelfth  of  July  after- 
noon, with  the  orange  lilies  between  them,  symbols,  not  of 
war,  but  of  victory. 


THE  SHAMROCK. 

>When  April  rains  make  flowers  bloom 
And  Johnny-jump-ups  come  to  light, 
And  clouds  of  color  and  perfume 

Float  from  the  orchards  pink  and  white, 
I see  my  shamrock  in  the  rain, 

An  emerald  spray  with  raindrops  set. 
Like  jewels  on  Spring’s  coronet, 

So  fair,  and  yet  it  breathes  of  pain. 

The  shamrock  on  an  older  shore 
Sprang  from  a rich  and  sacred  soil 
.Where  saint  and  hero  lived  of  yore. 

And  where  their  sons  in  sorrow  toil; 
And  here,  transplanted,  it  to  me 
Seems  weeping  for  the  soil  it  left. 

The  diamonds  that  all  others  see 
Are  tears  drawn  from  its  heart  bereft. 

When  April  rain  makes  flowers  grow, 

And  sparkles  on  their  tiny  buds 
That  in  June  nights  will  overflow 
And  fill  the  world  with  scented  floods, 
The  lonely  shamrock  in  our  land — 

So  fine  among  the  clover  leaves — 

For  the  old  springtime  often  grieves — 

I feel  its  tears  upon  my  hand. 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


(1778—1803.) 

Robert  Emmet  was  born  in  Cork  March  4,  1778.  He  was 
originally  intended  for  the  bar  and  entered  Trinity  College,  but  in 
1798  he  had  joined  the  Society  of  United  Irishmen  and  in  a speech 
at  the  Debating  Society  of  the  college  said  : “ When  a people  ad- 
vancing rapidly  in  knowledge  and  power  perceive  at  last  how  far 
their  government  is  lagging  behind  them,  what  then,  I ask,  is  to  be 
done  in  such  a case  ? What  but  to  pull  the  government  up  to  the 
people  ? ” The  result  was  that  Emmet  was  expelled. 

He  then  went  to  live  with  his  brother  at  Fort  George,  and  after- 
ward traveled  through  Spain,  Holland,  and  Switzerland,  and 
visited  Paris,  where  he  became  the  confidant  of  the  Jacobins  and 
the  center  of  a select  circle  of  exiles  who  were  both  Irish  patriots 
and  French  republicans. 

Buoyed  up  with  promises  of  assistance  from  France,  Emmet  once 
more  returned  to  Ireland  and  did  all  in  his  power  to  organize  an  in- 
surrection. His  patriotism  was  measured  not  only  by  words  but  by 
deeds.  The  death  of  his  father  had  put  him  in  possession  of  stock 
to  the  amount  of  £1,500  ($7,500).  This  he  converted  into  cash,  and, 
taking  a house  in  Patrick  Street,  Dublin,  he  had  pikes,  rockets, 
and  hand-grenades  made  and  stored  there  in  great  quantities.  An 
explosion  occurred  which  destroyed  a portion  of  the  house,  killing 
one  man  and  injuring  others  ; but  Emmet,  instead  of  being  dis- 
couraged by  this  disaster,  only  redoubled  his  care  and  resided 
entirely  on  the  premises.  At  this  time  he  wrote:  “I  have  little 
time  to  look  at  the  thousand  difficulties  which  stand  between  me 
and  the  completion  of  my  wishes.  That  these  difficulties  will  dis- 
appear I have  an  ardent  and,  I trust,  rational  hope.  But  if  it  is  not 
to  be  the  case,  I thank  God  for  having  gifted  me  with  a sanguine 
disposition.  To  that  disposition  I run  from  reflection  : and  if  my 
hopes  are  without  foundation — if  a precipice  is  opened  under  my 
feet,  from  which  duty  will  not  suffer  me  to  run  back — I am  grate- 
ful for  that  sanguine  disposition  which  leads  me  to  the  brink  and 
throws  me  down,  while  my  eyes  are  still  raised  to  those  visions  of 
happiness  which  my  fancy  has  formed  in  the  air.” 

On  July  23,  1803,  the  day  appointed  for  the  rising,  not  more  than 
a hundred  insurgents  assembled,  and  they  were  at  once  joined  by 
a noisy  rabble,  who,  in  passing  through  the  streets  to  attack  the 
Castle,  shot  dead  one  Colonel  Brown  and  rushed  upon  a carriage 
containing  Lord  Kilwarden,  the  Lord  Chief-Justice  of  Ireland,  his 
daughter,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wolfe.  Lord  Kilwarden  and  Mr.  Wolfe 
were  savagely  murdered,  but  Emmet,  on  hearing  of  the  outrage, 
rushed  from  the  head  of  his  party  and  bore  the  lady  to  an  adjoining 
house  for  safety.  The  leaders  now  lost  all  control  over  the  mob, 
and  in  utter  disgust  Emmet  and  his  companions  left  them  and  fled 
to  the  Wicklow  Hills. 


1086 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


1087 


His  friends  did  their  best  to  aid  in  his  escape,  and  all  preparations 
were  made,  but  he  refused  to  quit  Ireland  without  first  seeing  and 
bidding  farewell  to  Miss  Sarah  Curran,  daughter  of  John  Philpot 
Curran,  to  whom  he  was  betrothed.  The  delay  was  fatal,  and  he 
was  arrested.  Only  the  pathetic  lines  of  Moore  can  depict  the  feel- 
ings of  Miss  Curran  on  this  event  : — 

“ Oh ! what  was  love  made  for,  if  ’t  is  not  the  same 
Thro’  joy  and  thro’  torments,  thro’  glory  and  shame  ? 

I know  not,  I ask  not,  if  guilt ’s  in  that  heart, 

I but  know  that  I love  thee  whatever  thou  art  I 

“ Thou  hast  called  me  thy  angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 

Still  thy  angel  I ’ll  be  ’mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 

Thro’  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 

And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  or  perish  there  too.” 

While  in  prison.  Emmet  tried  to  induce  his  jailer  by  a gift  of 
money  to  deliver  a letter  to  Miss  Curran,  but  the  official  gave  it  to 
the  Attorney-General  instead.  On  hearing  of  this,  he  offered  to 
the  authorities  to  plead  guilty  and  speak  no  word  of  defense  if  the3^ 
would  permit  his  letter  to  reach  its  intended  destination,  but  the 
offer  was  refused.  He  was  brought  to  trial  in  September  for  high 
treason  and  sentenced  to  be  executed,  a sentence  which  was  im- 
mediately carried  out. 

Thomas  Moore,  who  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Emmet  at  college, 
says  of  him  in  his  ‘ Life  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald  ’ : “ Were  I to 
number  the  men  among  all  I have  ever  known  who  appeared  to  me 
to  combine  in  the  greatest  degree  pure  moral  worth  with  intellectual 
power,  I should  among  the  highest  of  the  few  place  Robert  Emmet.” 


LAST  SPEECH  OF  ROBERT  EMMET. 

My  Lords,— I am  asked  what  have  I to  say  why  sentence 
of  death  should  not  be  pronounced  on  me,  according  to  law. 
I have  nothing  to  say  that  can  alter  your  predetermination, 
nor  that  it  will  become  me  to  say,  with  any  view  to  the 
mitigation  of  that  sentence  which  you  are  to  pronounce, 
and  I must  abide  by.  But  I have  that  to  say  which  inter- 
ests me  more  than  life,  and  which  you  have  labored  to 
destroy.  I have  much  to  say  why  my  reputation  should 
be  rescued  from  the  load  of  false  accusation  and  calumny 
which  has  been  cast  upon  it.  I do  not  imagine  that,  seated 
where  you  are,  your  mind  can  be  so  free  from  prejudice  as 
to  receive  the  least  impression  from  what  I am  going  to 
utter.  I have  no  hopes  that  I can  anchor  my  character  in 
the  breast  of  a court  constituted  and  trammeled  as  this 


1088 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


I only  wish,  and  that  is  the  utmost  that  I expect,  that 
your  lordships  may  suffer  it  to  float  down  your  memories 
untainted  by  the  foul  breath  of  prejudice,  until  it  finds 
some  more  hospitable  harbor  to  shelter  it  from  the  storms 
by  which  it  is  buffeted.  Was  I only  to  suffer  death,  after 
being  adjudged  guilty  by  your  tribunal,  I should  bow  in 
silence,  and  meet  the  fate  that  awaits  me  without  a mur- 
mur; but  the  sentence  of  the  law  which  delivers  my  body 
to  the  executioner  will,  through  the  ministry  of  the  law, 
labor  in  its  own  vindication  to  consign  my  character  to 
obloquy;  for  there  must  be  guilt  somewhere,  whether  in 
the  sentence  of  the  court  or  in  the  catastrophe  time  must 
determine.  A man  in  my  situation  has  not  only  to  en- 
counter the  difficulties  of  fortune,  and  the  force  of  power 
over  minds  which  it  has  corrupted  or  subjugated,  but  the 
difficulties  of  established  prejudice.  The  man  dies,  but  his 
memor}^  lives.  That  mine  may  not  perish,  that  it  may 
live  in  the  respect  of  my  countrymen,  I seize  upon  this  op- 
portunity to  vindicate  myself  from  some  of  the  charges 
alleged  against  me.  When  my  spirit  shall  be  wafted  to 
a more  friendly  port — when  my  shade  shall  have  joined 
the  bands  of  those  martyred  heroes  who  have  shed  their 
blood  on  the  scaffold  and  in  the  field  in  the  defense  of  their 
country  and  of  virtue,  this  is  my  hope — I wish  that  my 
memory  and  name  may  animate  those  who  survive  me, 
while  I look  down  with  complacency  on  the  destruction  of 
that  perfidious  government  which  upholds  its  domination 
by  blasphemy  of  the  Most  High — which  displays  its  power 
over  man,  as  over  the  beasts  of  the  forest — which  sets  man 
upon  his  brother,  and  lifts  his  hand,  in  the  name  of  God, 
against  the  throat  of  his  fellow  who  believes  or  doubts  a 
little  more  or  a little  less  than  the  government  standard — 
a government  which  is  steeled  to  barbarity  by  the  cries 
of  the  orphans  and  the  tears  of  the  widows  it  has  made. 

[Here  Lord  Norbury  interrupted  Mr.  Emmet,  saying — 
‘‘  that  the  mean  and  wicked  enthusiasts  who  felt  as  he  did, 
were  not  equal  to  the  accomplishment  of  their  wild  de- 
signs.”] 

I appeal  to  the  immaculate  God — I swear  by  the  Throne 
of  Heaven,  before  which  I must  shortly  appear — by  the 
blood  of  the  murdered  patriots  who  have  gone  before  me 
— that  my  conduct  has  been,  through  all  this  peril,  and 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


1089 


through  all  my  purposes,  governed  only  by  the  conviction 
which  I have  uttered,  and  by  no  other  view  than  that  of  the 
emancipation  of  my  country  from  the  superinhuman  op- 
pression under  which  she  has  so  long  and  too  patiently 
travailed ; and  I confidently  hope  that,  wild  and  chimerical 
as  it  may  appear,  there  is  still  union  and  strength  in  Ire- 
land to  accomplish  this  noblest  of  enterprises.  Of  this  I 
speak  with  confidence,  of  intimate  knowledge,  and  with  the 
consolation  that  appertains  to  that  confidence.  Think  not, 
my  lords,  I say  this  for  the  petty  gratification  of  giving  you 
a transitory  uneasiness.  A man  who  never  yet  raised  his 
voice  to  assert  a lie,  will  not  hazard  his  character  with  pos- 
terity by  asserting  a falsehood  on  a subject  so  important  to 
his  country,  and  on  an  occasion  like  this.  Yes,  my  lords, 
a man  who  does  not  wish  to  have  his  epitaph  written  until 
his  country  is  liberated,  will  not  leave  a weapon  in  the 
power  of  envy,  or  a pretense  to  impeach  the  probity  which 
he  means  to  preserve,  even  in  the  grave  to  which  tyranny 
consigns  him. 

[Here  he  was  interrupted.  Lord  Norbury  said  he  did 
not  sit  there  to  hear  treason.] 

I have  always  understood  it  to  be  the  duty  of  a judge, 
when  a prisoner  has  been  convicted,  to  pronounce  the  sen- 
tence of  the  law.  I have  also  understood  that  judges  some- 
times think  it  their  duty  to  hear  with  patience  and  to 
speak  with  humanity;  to  exhort  the  victim  of  the  laws,  and 
to  offer,  with  tender  benignity,  their  opinions  of  the  motives 
by  which  he  was  actuated  in  the  crime  of  which  he  was 
adjudged  guilty.  That  a judge  has  thought  it  his  duty 
so  to  have  done,  I have  no  doubt ; but  where  is  the  boasted 
freedom  of  your  institutions — where  is  the  vaunted  im- 
partiality, clemency,  and  mildness  of  your  courts  of  justice, 
if  an  unfortunate  prisoner,  whom  your  policy,  and  not 
justice,  is  about  to  deliver  into  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner, is  not  suffered  to  explain  his  motives  sincerel}^  and 
truly,  and  to  vindicate  the  principles  by  which  he  was 
actuated?  My  lords,  it  may  be  a part  of  the  system  of 
angry  justice  to  bow  a man’s  mind  by  humiliation  to  the 
purposed  ignominy  of  the  scaffold;  but  worse  to  me  than 
the  purposed  shame,  or  the  scaffold’s  terrors,  would  be  the 
shame  of  such  foul  and  unfounded  imputations  as  have 
been  laid  against  me  in  this  court.  You,  my  lord,  are  a 


1090 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


judge;  I am  the  supposed  culprit.  I am  a man;  you  are  a 
man  also.  By  a revolution  of  power  we  might  change 
places,  though  we  never  could  change  characters.  If  I 
stand  at  the  bar  of  this  court,  and  dare  not  vindicate  my 
character,  what  a farce  is  your  justice!  If  I stand  at  this 
bar  and  dare  not  vindicate  my  character,  how  dare  you 
calumniate  it?  Does  the  sentence  of  death,  which  your 
unhallowed  policy  inflicts  on  my  body,  condemn  my  tongue 
to  silence  and  my  reputation  to  reproach?  Your  execu- 
tioner may  abridge  the  period  of  my  existence;  but  while 
I exist  I shall  not  forbear  to  vindicate  my  character  and 
motives  from  your  aspersions ; and,  as  a man  to  whom  fame 
is  dearer  than  life,  I will  make  the  last  use  of  that  life  in 
doing  justice  to  that  reputation  which  is  to  live  after  me, 
and  which  is  the  only  legacy  I can  leave  to  those  I honor 
and  love,  and  for  whom  I am  proud  to  perish.  As  men,  my 
lords,  we  must  appear  on  the  great  day  at  one  common  tri- 
bunal; and  it  will  then  remain  for  the  Searcher  of  all 
hearts  to  show  a collective  universe  who  was  engaged  in  the 
most  virtuous  actions  or  swayed  by  the  purest  motives. . . . 

I am  charged  with  being  an  emissary  of  France.  An 
emissary  of  France  I and  for  what  end?  It  is  alleged  that  I 
wished  to  sell  the  independence  of  my  country;  and  for 
what  end?  Was  this  the  object  of  my  ambition?  And  is 
this  the  mode  by  which  a tribunal  of  justice  reconciles  con- 
tradiction? No;  I am  no  emissary;  and  my  ambition  was 
to  hold  a place  among  the  deliverers  of  my  country,  not 
in  power  nor  in  proflt,  but  in  the  glory  of  the  achievement. 
Sell  my  country's  independence  to  France!  and  for  what? 
Was  it  a change  of  masters?  No,  but  for  my  ambition.  Oh, 
my  country,  was  it  personal  ambition  that  could  influence 
me?  Had  it  been  the  soul  of  my  actions,  could  I not,  by 
my  education  and  fortune,  by  the  rank  and  consideration 
of  my  family,  have  placed  myself  amongst  the  proudest  of 
your  oppressors?  My  Country  was  my  idol.  To  it  I sac- 
rificed every  selfish,  every  endearing  sentiment;  and  for  it 
I now  offer  up  myself,  O God ! No,  my  lords;  I acted  as  an 
Irishman,  determined  on  delivering  my  country  from  the 
yoke  of  a foreign  and  unrelenting  tyranny,  and  the  more 
galling  yoke  of  a domestic  faction,  which  is  its  joint  partner 
and  perpetrator  in  the  patricide, — from  the  ignominy  ex- 
isting with  an  exterior  of  splendor  and  a conscious  de- 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


1091 


pravity.  It  was  the  wish  of  my  heart  to  extricate  my 
country  from  this  doubly  riveted  despotism — I wished  to 
place  her  independence  beyond  the  reach  of  any  power  on 
earth.  I wished  to  exalt  her  to  that  proud  station  in  the 
world.  Connection  with  France  was  indeed  intended,  but 
only  as  far  as  mutual  interest  would  sanction  or  require. 

Were  the  French  to  assume  any  authority  inconsistent 
with  the  purest  independence,  it  would  be  a signal  for 
their  destruction.  We  sought  their  aid — and  we  sought  it 
as  we  had  assurance  we  should  obtain  it — as  auxiliaries  in 
war  and  allies  in  peace.  Were  the  French  to  come  as  in- 
vaders or  enemies,  uninvited  by  the  wishes  of  the  people,  I 
should  oppose  them  to  the  utmost  of  my  strength.  Yes! 
my  countrymen,  I should  advise  you  to  meet  them  upon  the 
beach  with  a sword  in  one  hand  and  a torch  in  the  other. 
I would  meet  them  with  all  the  destructive  fury  of  war. 
I would  animate  my  countrymen  to  immolate  them  in  their 
boats,  before  they  had  contaminated  the  soil  of  my  coun- 
try. If  they  succeeded  in  landing,  and  if  forced  to  retire 
before  superior  discipline,  I would  dispute  every  inch  of 
ground,  burn  every  blade  of  grass,  and  the  last  entrench- 
ment of  liberty  should  be  my  grave.  What  I could  not  do 
myself,  if  I should  fall,  I should  leave  as  a last  charge  to 
my  countrymen  to  accomplish;  because  I should  feel  con- 
scious that  life,  any  more  than  death,  is  unprofitable  when 
a foreign  nation  holds  my  country  in  subjection.  But  it 
was  not  as  an  enemy  that  the  succors  of  France  were  to 
land.  I looked,  indeed,  for  the  assistance  of  France;  but 
I wished  to  prove  to  France  and  to  the  world  that  Irishmen 
deserved  to  be  assisted — that  they  were  indignant  at  slav- 
ery, and  ready  to  assert  the  independence  and  liberty  of 
their  country;  I wished  to  procure  for  my  country  the 
guarantee  which  Washington  procured  for  America — to 
procure  an  aid  which,  by  its  example,  would  be  as  im- 
portant as  its  valor;  disciplined,  gallant,  pregnant  with 
science  and  experience ; that  of  a people  who  would  perceive 
the  good  and  polish  the  rough  points  of  our  character. 
They  would  come  to  us  as  strangers  and  leave  us  as  friends, 
after  sharing  in  our  perils  and  elevating  our  destiny.  These 
were  my  objects;  not  to  receive  new  taskmasters,  but  to 
expel  old  tyrants.  It  was  for  these  ends  I sought  aid  from 
France;  because  France,  even  as  an  enemy,  could  not  be 


1092 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


more  implacable  than  the  enemy  already  in  the  bosom  of 
my  country. 

I have  been  charged  with  that  importance  in  the  emanci- 
pation of  my  country  as  to  be  considered  the  keystone  of 
the  combination  of  Irishmen;  or,  as  your  lordship  ex- 
pressed it,  the  life  and  blood  of  the  conspiracy.^’  You 
do  me  honor  overmuch ; you  have  given  to  the  subaltern  all 
the  credit  of  a superior.  There  are  men  engaged  in  this 
conspiracy  who  are  not  only  superior  to  me,  but  even  to 
your  own  conceptions  of  yourself,  my  lord — men  before  the 
splendor  of  whose  genius  and  virtues  I should  bow  with 
respectful  deference,  and  who  would  think  themselves  dis- 
graced by  shaking  your  blood-stained  hand. 

What,  my  lord,  shall  you  tell  me,  on  the  passage  to  the 
scaffold,  which  that  tyranny  (of  which  you  are  only  the 
intermediary  executioner)  has  erected  for  my  murder,  that 
I am  accountable  for  all  the  blood  that  has  and  will  be 
shed  in  this  struggle  of  the  oppressed  against  the  oppressor 
— shall  3^ou  tell  me  this,  and  must  I be  so  very  a slave  as 
not  to  repel  it?  I do  not  fear  to  approach  the  Omnipotent 
Judge  to  answer  for  the  conduct  of  my  whole  life;  and  am  I 
to  be  appalled  and  falsified  by  a mere  remnant  of  mortality 
here?  By  you,  too,  although  if  it  were  possible  to  collect 
all  the  innocent  blood  that  you  have  shed  in  your  unhal- 
lowed ministry  in  one  great  reservoir,  your  lordship  might 
swim  in  it. 

Let  no  man  dare,  when  I am  dead,  to  charge  me  with 
dishonor ; let  no  man  attaint  my  memory,  by  believing  that 
I could  have  engaged  in  any  cause  but  that  of  my  country’s 
liberty  and  independence;  or  that  I could  have  become  the 
pliant  minion  of  power,  in  the  oppression  and  misery  of 
my  country.  The  proclamation  of  the  provisional  govern- 
ment speaks  for  our  views;  no  inference  can  be  tortured 
from  it  to  countenance  barbarity  or  debasement  at  home, 
or  subjection,  humiliation,  or  treachery  from  abroad.  I 
would  not  have  submitted  to  a foreign  oppressor,  for  the 
same  reason  that  I would  resist  the  domestic  oppressor. 
In  the  dignity  of  freedom  I would  have  fought  upon  the 
threshold  of  my  country,  and  its  enemy  should  enter  only 
by  passing  over  my  lifeless  corpse.  And  am  I,  who  lived 
but  for  my  country,  and  who  have  subjected  myself  to  the 
dangers  of  the  jealous  and  watchful  oppressor  and  the 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


1093 


bondage  of  the  grave,  only  to  give  my  countrymen  their 
rights  and  my  country  her  independence,  am  I to  be  loaded 
with  calumny,  and  not  suffered  to  resent  it?  No;  God 
forbid ! 

[Here  Lord  Norbury  told  Mr.  Emmet  that  his  sentiments 
and  language  disgraced  his  family  and  his  education,  but 
more  particularly  his  father.  Dr.  Emmet,  who  was  a man, 
if  alive,  that  would  not  countenance  such  opinions.  To 
which  Mr.  Emmet  replied: — ] 

If  the  spirits  of  the  illustrious  dead  participate  in  the 
concerns  and  cares  of  those  who  were  dear  to  them  in  this 
transitory  life,  oh ! ever  dear  and  venerated  shade  of  my 
departed  father,  look  down  with  scrutiny  upon  the  conduct 
of  your  suffering  son,  and  see  if  I have  even  for  a moment 
deviated  from  those  principles  of  morality  and  patriotism 
which  it  was  your  care  to  instil  into  my  youthful  mind,  and 
for  which  I am  now  about  to  offer  up  my  life.  My  lords,  you 
are  impatient  for  the  sacrifice.  The  blood  which  you  seek 
is  not  congealed  by  the  artificial  terrors  which  surround 
your  victim — it  circulates  warmly  and  unruffled  through 
the  channels  which  God  created  for  noble  purposes,  but 
which  you  are  now  bent  to  destroy,  for  purposes  so  grievous 
that  they  cry  to  heaven.  Be  yet  patient!  I have  but  a 
few  more  words  to  say — I am  going  to  my  cold  and  silent 
grave — my  lamp  of  life  is  nearly  extinguished — my  race  is 
run — the  grave  opens  to  receive  me,  and  I sink  into  its 
bosom.  I have  but  one  request  to  make  at  my  departure 
from  this  world,  it  is — the  charity  of  its  silence.  Let  no 
man  write  my  epitaph ; for  as  no  man,  who  knows  my  mo- 
tives, dare  now  vindicate  them,  let  not  prejudice  or  ig- 
norance asperse  them.  Let  them  rest  in  obscurity  and 
peace!  Let  my  memory  be  left  in  oblivion,  and  my  tomb 
remain  uninscribed,  until  other  times  and  other  men  can 
do  justice  to  my  character.  When  my  country  takes  her 
place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  then,  and  not  till 
then,  let  my  epitaph  be  written.  I have  done. 


1094 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


LINES  BY  ROBERT  EMMET. 

WRITTEN  ON  ARBOR  HILL  BURYING-GROUND,  DUBLIN,  WHERE  THE 
BODIES  OP  INSURGENTS  SHOT  IN  1798  W'ERE  INTERED. 

No  rising  column  marks  this  spot, 

Where  many  a victim  lies; 

But  oh!  the  blood  which  here  has  streamed, 

To  Heaven  for  justice  cries. 

It  claims  it  on  the  oppressor’s  head, 

Who  joys  in  human  woe. 

Who  drinks  the  tears  by  misery  shed, 

And  mocks  them  as  they  flow. 

It  claims  it  on  the  callous  judge. 

Whose  hands  in  blood  are  dyed, 

Who  arms  injustice  with  the  sword, 

The  balance  throws  aside. 

It  claims  it  for  this  ruined  isle, 

Her  wretched  children’s  grave; 

Where  withered  Freedom  droops  her  head. 

And  man  exists — a slave. 

O sacred  Justice!  free  this  land 
From  tyranny  abhorred ; 

Resume  thy  balance  and  thy  seat — 

Resume — but  sheathe  thy  sword. 

No  retribution  should  we  seek — 

Too  long  has  horror  reigned ; 

By  mercy  marked  may  freedom  rise, 

By  cruelty  unstained. 

Nor  shall  a tyrant’s  ashes  mix 
With  those  our  martyred  dead; 

This  is  the  place  where  Erin’s  sons 
In  Erin’s  cause  have  bled. 

And  those  who  here  are  laid  at  rest. 

Oh ! hallowed  be  each  name ; 

Their  memories  are  forever  blest — 

Consigned  to  endless  fame. 


ROBERT  EMMET. 


1095 


Unconsecrated  is  this  ground, 
Unblest  by  holy  hands; 

No  bell  here  tolls  its  solemn  sound, 
No  monument  here  stands. 

But  here  the  patriot’s  tears  are  shed, 
The  poor  man’s  blessing  given; 
These  consecrate  the  virtuous  dead, 
These  waft  their  fame  to  heaven. 


MRS.  ESLER. 


Mrs.  E.  Rentoul  Esler  was  born  in  County  Donegal.  She  is  a 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  A.  Rentoul.  She  was  educated  privately 
and  in  France  and  Germany.  In  1883  she  married  Dr.  Robert  Esler 
of  London  and  Bally  menor.  She  has  published  ‘ The  Way  of  Trans- 
gressors,’ ‘ The  Way  They  Loved  at  Grimpat,’  ‘ A Maid  of  the  Manse,’ 
‘ Mid  Green  Pastures,’  ‘ The  Wardlaws,’  ‘ Youth  at  the  Prow,’  and 
‘ The  Awakening  of  Helena  Thorpe.’  Her  studies  of  North  Ireland 
life,  of  that  Presbyterian  portion  of  it  which  is  as  different  as 
possible  from  the  Catholic,  are  vivid  and  true. 

THE  CRIMINALITY  OP  LETTY  MOORE. 

Mary  Willett  had  decided  to  emigrate.  As  this  is  not 
her  story,  it  is  unnecessary  at  this  juncture  to  explain  why. 

It  was  an  October  afternoon,  but  chilly;  the  frost  bad 
come  too  soon,  and  the  leaves  were  too  russet  and  too  brown 
for  the  time  of  year,  and  the  breath  of  the  north  wind  was 
cold. 

Mary  stood  by  the  window  of  Letty  Moore’s  kitchen, 
looking  out.  One  takes  a careless  attitude  sometimes  when 
not  quite  at  ease  with  the  topic  under  discussion.  Letty 
sat  facing  the  light,  which  fell  fully  on  her  small-featured, 
large-eyed  face,  and  showed  the  anxiety  there. 

‘‘  I wouldn’t  go,  if  I were  you,”  Letty  said. 

If  you  were  me  you  just  would,”  Mary  answered  with 
a short  laugh. 

Y'ou  are  so  young,”  Letty  went  on  wistfully. 

That  is  a fault  one  outgrows  with  time.” 

And  you  are  so  pretty.” 

That  should  help  me.” 

I don’t  know  that  it  does,  always,  when  a girl  has  her 
way  to  make.” 

It  is  decided  that  I am  going,  anyway,  so  there  is  no 
use  in  seeing  the  worst  side  of  things  now.” 

Letty  began  to  cry.  Does  John  approve?  ” she  asked, 
elohn  was  Mary’s  brother. 

“ Of  course  he  does;  but  for  him  I couldn’t  go — he  will 
find  the  money;  he  says  it  is  only  fair,  since  I am  set  on  it.” 

Letty  wiped  away  her  fast-falling  tears.  “ I wish — I 
wish — ” she  said  miserably. 

“If  there  was  any  good  in  wishing,”  Mary  interrupted 

1096 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1097 


in  a hard  tone,  I should  wish  that  home  was  a happier 
place  for  us  young  ones,  and  that  John  might  marry  you.’^ 
That  has  been  nothing  but  your  fancy  ever,^^  Letty  said 
firmly,  and  for  the  moment  the  bright  flush  of  color  in  her 
face  made  her  almost  as  pretty  as  her  friend.  Because 
you  like  me  you  think  he  does,  it  ^s  nothing  but  that.’’ 

I don’t  know  that  he  ’ll  ever  tell  you  of  it,”  Mary  went 
on,  having  so  little  to  offer  you  as  things  are,  but  he  has 
always  been  fond  of  you.” 

A current  of  thought  ran,  like  slow  and  harmless  flame, 
through  Letty’s  mind;  she  had  not  a fortune,  it  was  true, 
but  she  had  her  industry — that  meant  money,  and  a home 
of  her  own,  in  case  John  thought  the  paternal  home  was  too 
full  already.  But  girls  do  not  enunciate  thoughts  of  this 
kind,  even  to  their  closest  intimates.  Letty  seemed  to 
think  in  lightning  flashes,  but  when  she  spoke  her  words 
were  measured,  and  quite  irrelevant  to  the  subject  of  her 
thoughts. 

‘‘  When  do  you  mean  to  go?  ” she  asked. 

Next  week,  if  I am  living.” 

Oh,  dear,”  Letty  said  with  a bursting  sigh,  and  the 
weather  growing  colder  every  day,  and — everything ! ” 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

I ’ll  give  you  my  fur  cloak,”  said  Letty,  hurriedly. 

It  ’ll  not  need  much  altering  to  fit  you,  and  it ’s  that 
warm  it  ’ll  keep  the  life  in  you,  and  I ’ll  make  you  a hood 
for  the  journey,  a lined  one,  to  fit  close  round  your  face.” 

Mary  threw  her  arms  about  her  friend’s  neck,  and  burst 
into  tears,  all  her  wounded  pride,  her  resentment,  perhaps 
her  dread  of  the  enterprise  before  her,  finding  utterance 
thus. 

Letty  Moore  was  a professional ; that  is  to  say,  she  had 
been  trained  to  dressmaking,  and  lived  hj  it  exclusively^  in 
which  respect  she  differed  from  several  others  at  Grimpat, 
who  worked  at  the  business  fitfully,  and  had  some  income 
apart  from  it.  But  there  was  not  a fortune  in  the  industry 
even  to  a professional.  No  Grimpat  woman  ever  thought 
of  more  than  one  new  dress  in  the  year,  and,  where  that 
was  a good  one,  such  as  a silk,  why,  it  did  for  several  sub- 
sequent years,  of  course.  But  this  involved  few^  changes 
of  fashion,  and  on  the  whole  was  for  the  peace  of  mind  of 
dressmakers. 


14— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1098 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


There  were  times  when  Letty  wished  that  she  was  not 
the  best  dressmaker,  which  goes  to  prove  that  she  was  a 
little  more  of  a woman  and  a little  less  of  an  artist  than 
might  have  been  believed,  and  that  was  when  accident 
brought  her  now  and  then  a sudden  rush  of  work  and  re- 
sponsibility. It  was  on  the  very  evening  of  Mary^s  visit 
to  her  that  old  Mr.  Tedford  died,  and  as  he  was  very  well- 
to-do,  and  of  the  highest  respectability,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  neighborhood  claimed  kindred  with  him  and  went 
into  mourning.  Letty  stitched  and  stitched,  and  fitted,' 
and  altered,  and  sent  home  parcels  all  day  long,  so  that 
the  eve  of  her  friend^s  departure  had  arrived  before  she 
found  time  to  make  in  her  fur  cloak  the  few  alterations  she 
had  spoken  of. 

When  these  were  completed  she  locked  up  her  house 
and  took  the  carrier’s  cart  to  Nutford.  She  was  bound  to 
supply  the  hood  she  had  premised,  and  there  was  no  suita- 
ble material  to  be  procured  nearer  home.  Owing  to  work 
and  preoccupation,  Letty  had  forgotten  that  the  day  was 
a Thursday,  and  that  the  Nutford  shops  closed  early  on 
Thursdays.  When  she  found  the  windows  all  shuttered 
and  the  doors  all  barricaded,  Letty’s  natural  conclusion 
was  that  Nutford  was  also  in  mourning  for  Mr.  Tedford. 
But  after  a moment  the  reasonable  explanation  occurred 
to  her,  and  she  sped  from  house  to  house  and  from  street 
to  street — in  vain;  such  shops  as  remained  open  offered 
nothing  better  than  could  be  found  at  Grimpat. 

Letty  went  home  in  a kind  of  despair.  She  had  prom- 
ised that  hood,  and  Mary  was  depending  on  it,  and  to  pre- 
sent herself  before  Mary  in  the  morning  without  it  was  a 
prospect  she  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  face.  Arrived 
at  her  own  house,  she  opened  every  trunk,  and  drawer,  and 
receptacle.  She  studied  the  possibilities  of  every  remnant, 
but  there  was  nothing  that  would  be  of  the  slightest  ser- 
vice. Scarlet  satin,  striped  yellow  and  black  silk,  and 
patchwork  Avere  equally  out  of  the  question.  She  could 
not  send  her  friend  out  into  the  world  barred  like  a zebra 
or  gay  as  a parrokeet. 

To  think  of  disappointing  her,  and  her  so  fond  of  me ! ” 
said  Letty,  with  a sob.  She  recalled  Mary’s  quick  rush  of 
rapture  at  the  mention  of  the  hood,  her  half-whispered 
words,  If  only  CA^erybody  was  as  good  as  you ! ” and  felt 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1099 


that  to  break  her  promise  was  too  grievous  to  think 
about. 

‘‘  I don^t  know  how  I ^11  face  her,  and  that ’s  the  truth, 
she  said. 

The  floor  was  littered  with  scraps,  cuttings,  and  odds 
and  ends.  She  began  to  sort  them  mechanically,  putting 
the  larger  pieces  back  whence  they  had  been  taken,  gather- 
ing the  smaller  bits  into  a covered  basket  that  she  kept  for 
refuse,  opening  and  shutting  the  drawers  mechanically, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  did. 

Suddenly  she  paused,  and  a kind  of  tremor  stole  over 
her.  In  one  of  the  drawers  was  a piece  of  silk  which  she 
had  been  commissioned  to  keep  till  the  spring.  Old  Mrs. 
Smith  had  bought  it  as  a present  for  her  niece,  and  had 
intrusted  it  to  the  dressmaker  pending  her  niece’s  next 
visit.  Letty  withdrew  the  silk  from  its  wrappings  of  tissue 
paper  and  laid  it  on  the  bed.  On  the  outer  cover  was  the 
vendor’s  name,  “ John  Marshall,  Nutford.” 

If  only  I had  been  in  time,”  said  Letty,  I could  have 
got  a bit  of  that ; it ’s  the  very  thing.” 

She  drew  forth  a fold  of  the  silk  and  touched  it  with 
caressing  fingers.  The  ground  was  black,  with  a pattern 
of  triangular  patches  of  pink — a quaint,  old-fashioned 
pattern,  the  mode  of  an  hour,  a pretty  but  ephemeral  thing ; 
but  Letty  did  not  know  that.  She  took  her  yard-measure 
and  ran  along  the  length  of  the  piece.  Nine  yards,”  she 
said.  Those  were  not  the  days  of  voluminous  sleeves  or 
bouffant  skirts.  Three-quarters  of  a yard  would  make 
the  hood,  and  I have  the  lining,  and  the  wadding,  and  black 
strings  that  would  do,  and  I could  match  the  silk  to- 
morrow at  Marshall’s  and  put  it  back.  It  wouldn’t  be  a 
sin ; I don’t  think  it  would  be  a sin.  It  is  for  Mary’s  sake, 
not  to  disappoint  her,  and  her  so  fond  of  me.  Oh,  dear! 
I hope  it’s  not  a sin;  I wouldn’t  do  a sin  for  anything.” 
But  she  had  taken  up  the  scissors,  and  had  cut  off  the 
length  of  silk  required,  even  while  she  protested. 

Until  late  in  the  night  she  sewed  feverishly.  When  the 
hood  was  finished,  she  tried  it  on  herself.  It  makes  me 
just  bonnie ! ” she  said  with  a gay  little  laugh,  and  truly 
at  the  moment  her  eyes  were  as  bright  as  stars  and  her 
cheeks  like  roses.  Letty  did  not  know  that  the  fever  of  a 
first  misdoing  was  in  her  veins. 


1100 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


She  slept  little  that  night,  because  she  had  Mary,  and  the 
hood,  and  John  Willett,  and  all  the  others  to  think  about. 
The  thought  that  when  Mary  had  gone  she  would  scarcely 
hear  of  John,  and  certainly  never  anything  intimate  con- 
cerning him,  added  a conscious  element  to  her  depression. 

There  was  niuch  excitement  at  the  Willetts’  when  Letty 
arrived  there,  almost  as  much  as  if  the  occasion  had  in- 
volved a marriage  or  a funeral.  The  neighbors  had  come 
to  say  good-bye ; a few  of  the  more  intimate  would  remain 
to  speed  Mary’s  departure,  the  others  left  their  little  gifts 
and  good  wishes  and  went  away. 

To  dispose  of  gifts  at  the  last  moment,  when  one  is  start- 
ing on  a journey  to  another  continent,  involves  trouble; 
Mary  was  very  busy  and  excited,  half-laughing,  half-tear- 
ful, her  sisters  disposed  to  envy  her,  and  to  promise  that 
they  would  join  her  as  soon  as  she  advised  them  to  do  so, 
wliile  Mrs.  Willett  moved  about  like  a large  and  solemn 
Minerva,  talking  mournfully  of  wilful  children  and  dan- 
gers that  awaited  those  who  were  ungrateful  for  a home. 

Letty  had  determined  to  go  with  Mary  to  Nutford;  she 
wanted  her  to  wear  the  cloak  on  her  journey  to  Liverpool, 
but  she  did  not  want  her  to  wear  it  at  Grimpat,  where  it 
would  be  recognized.  When  she  had  said  good-bye  to  her 
friend  she  would  go  to  Marshall’s  and  match  the  silk.  She 
did  not  acknowledge  this  even  to  herself,  but  it  is  possible 
that  amid  her  sorrow  and  her  fears  she  found  it  not  alto- 
gether unpleasant  to  travel  half  an  hour  side  by  side  with 
Mary’s  brother. 

The  leavetakings  were  over  at  last,  and  Mary,  a little 
despondent,  a little  elated,  steamed  away  towards  the  New 
World.  Letty  watched  her  out  of  sight,  wiped  her  tears, 
and  then  took  her  way  briskly  towards  the  draper’s.  The 
practical  trod  hard  on  the  heels  of  the  dramatic,  as  alwmys 
happens  in  this  mixed  life  of  ours. 

Mr.  Marshall  could  not  match  the  silk;  he  said  it  was 
useless  even  to  attempt  to  do  so;  that  the  dress  was 
one  of  a set  purchased  in  lengths  and  so  retailed,  that  he 
bought  the  lot  at  a clearance  sale,  and  had  not  the  faintest 
idea  where  they  had  been  made. 

Letty  thought  she  would  faint  when  she  received  this 
information;  floating  darkness  seemed  to  shut  the  man’s 
unimaginative  face  away  from  her,  and  the  breath  on  her 


MBS.  ESLER 


1101 


lips  felt  cold.  Mr.  Marshall  was  frightened — he  caught 
at  her  hastily  across  the  counter,  and  helped  her  to  seat 
herself.  You  are  not  well,’^  he  said. 

Not  just  too  well,^^  she  answered  dully.  “ I have  been 
working  very  hard  lately,  owing  to  Mr.  Tedford^s  death, 
you  know,  and  then  to  see  Mary  Willett  go  away  has  been 
a kind  of  trial ; she  is  my  oldest  friend.^’ 

The  world  is  full  of  trouble, said  Mr.  Marshall ; the 
occasion  demanded  speech,  and  he  could  not  think  of  any 
more  apt  or  apposite. 

Letty  said  nothing;  she  leaned  her  arms  on  the  counter 
and  contemplated  him  in  pale  dismay. 

You  donT  know  even  if  that  bit  of  silk  was  French  or 
English?  she  asked,  after  a pause. 

I donT  know  a thing  about  it  but  what  I have  told  you. 
Is  it  very  important  that  it  should  be  matched? 

The  dress  length  is  a bit  short  for  what  I want ; I can’t 
make  it  the  way  it  was  intended,  unless  I get  three-quarters 
of  a yard  more.” 

Then  you  ’ll  have  to  make  it  some  other  way,”  the  man 
answered  pleasantly.  What  would  you  say  to  a bit  of 
black  or  a bit  of  pink  for  trimming?  ” 

Letty  shook  her  head  as  she  rose.  “ No,  no,”  she  said, 
it  wouldn’t  be  a bit  of  good ; nothing  will  be  any  good 
but  just  the  silk  itself.” 

Mr.  Marshall  looked  after  her  as  she  went  down  the  shop. 
She  works  too  hard,”  he  said,  and  she  is  a nice  little 
body — getting  on,  too,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it.  She 
has  been  a regular  customer  of  mine  for  seven  or  eight 
years.”  Then  Mr.  Marshall  sighed,  though  neither  he  nor 
any  one  else  could  have  told  why. 

Letty  went  down  the  street  like  one  in  a dream.  The 
cold  north  wind  ruffled  her  hair  and  fluttered  her  trim 
skirts,  and  blew  coldly  into  her  distended  eyes.  I am  a 
thief,”  she  was  saying  to  herself,  a thief!”  Taking  the 
silk  when  she  believed  she  could  put  it  back  scarcely  seemed 
a liberty,  much  less  a crime;  now  its  aspect  was  altogether 
different. 

I wonder  what  I ’m  to  do ! ” the  girl  said  to  herself. 
There  were  women  to  whom  she  would  have  gone  imme- 
diately and  made  confession,  and  offered  anything  in  com- 
pensation for  the  missing  material;  but  in  Mrs.  Smith’s 


1102 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


case  this  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Mrs.  Smith  would 
simply  tell  the  whole  parish  that  Letty  Moore  was  not 
lionest,  or  to  be  trusted,  because  she  had  stolen  a piece  of 
her  silk  gown.  Then  the  thought  of  John  Willett  came 
into  Letty’s  mind,  and  of  how  he  would  receive  this  tid- 
ings. What  will  become  of  me,  any  way?  ” she  said. 

I ^11  not  charge  her  for  anything  but  the  bare  making,’’ 
said  Letty.  I ’ll  put  in  all  the  lining  and  bone  free,  and 
give  her  value  that  way,  and  I ’ll  line  the  bottom  of  the 
skirt  with  a bit  of  silk ; if  she  notices  it,  I ’ll  say  I had  it 
by  me,  and  she  is  welcome  to  it.”  Then  she  sighed  again; 
it  struck  her  already  that  the  path  of  the  wrong-doer  is 
a tortuous  one,  and  Letty  was  very  fond  of  plain  dealing 
and  straight  ways. 

When  she  reached  home,  she  took  out  the  piece  of  silk 
and  looked  at  it ; then  she  began  to  cry  in  a tired  way.  To 
think  of  me  being  a thief;  but  it ’s  just  what  I am.  I sup- 
pose it ’s  this  way  people  begin  to  rob  banks  and  get  sent 
to  prison.  I wonder  will  she  find  out?  If  she  doesn’t 
I ’ll — ” she  did  not  know  what  wild  condition  she 
wanted  to  offer  to  destiny,  she  only  knew  that  she 
was  ready  to  promise  anything  provided  she  escaped 
the  consequences  of  this  one  misdoing.  Meantime,  Mrs. 
Smith  had  also  been  to  Nutford,  and  had  also  had  an 
errand  to  John  Marshall’s,  and  thus,  by  one  of  the  evil 
chances  which  overtake  certain  unfortunates,  she  sat  down 
in  the  very  chair  poor  Letty  had  vacated,  and  was  wel- 
comed by  Mr.  Marshall  with  just  the  same  smile  and  the 
same  insinuating  movement  of  the  hands.  Mrs.  Smith 
laid  her  reticule  on  the  counter,  opened  it,  took  out  her 
list,  and  spoke  first  of  bombazine. 

While  Mr.  Marshall  waited  on  her,  she  picked  up  ab- 
stractedly the  strip  of  silk  Letty  had  left  behind,  and 
wound  it  absent-mindedly  round  the  finger  of  her  cotton 
glove.  When  her  purchases  were  effected  and  she  was 
about  to  open  her  purse,  the  bit  of  silk  caught  her  atten- 
tion for  the  first  time. 

Another  bit  of  my  silk,  Mr.  Marshall,”  she  said,  un- 
bending. Have  you  got  a new  consignment  of  them  dress 
lengths?  I wouldn’t  mind  a black  one  for  myself,  if  you 
have  a black  as  good  a bargain.” 

Mr.  Marshall  shook  his  head.  It ’s  a rare  chance  to 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1103 


get  such  goods  as  they  were,  so  cheap.  One  doesn’t  do  that 
twice  in  half  a dozen  years.  I could  sell  them  ten  times 
over  if  I had  more.  There  was  a young  lady  in  to  match 
one  of  them  a while  ago,  and  she  is  just  distracted  that 
there  is  not  more  to  be  had.  That ’s  her  pattern  round 
your  finger.” 

Mr.  Marshall,”  said  Mrs.  Smith  impressively,  you 
told  me  you  had  just  one  pink  and  black,  and  that  you  sold 
it  to  me,  yet  here ’s  another  pink  and  black  of  somebody 
else’s ! ” 

Whatever  I told  you  at  the  time  was  the  truth,”  said 
Mr.  Marshall,  with  dignity.  There  is  no  need  to  say 
what  isn’t,  to  sell  my  goods.” 

But  here ’s  another  pattern  of  the  same,”  Mrs.  Smith 
persisted.  ‘‘  Who  brought  this  pattern?  ” 

It  was  Miss  Moore.” 

Letty  Moore  the  dressmaker ! Well,  now,  to  think  of 
that ! Fancied  my  silk  for  herself,  I suppose,  and  thought 
to  match  it.  But  you  haven’t  another,  you  say?  Well, 
I ’m  glad  of  that ; set  her  up,  indeed,  with  a gown  like  my 
niece’s.  Now  she’s  cut  this  pattern  off  my  piece;  I don’t 
call  that  dealing  on  the  square,  do  you?  ” 

Miss  Moore  is  a very  respectable  young  woman,  and 
wouldn’t  do  anything  she  couldn’t  stand  over,  I ’m  sure,” 
said  Mr.  Marshall,  with  decision.  I have  done  business 
with  her  for  a very  long  time,  and  I have  a great  regard 
for  her.” 

“ That ’s  as  may  be,  Mr.  Marshall ; but  if  she ’s  cut  a 
pattern  off  my  stuff,  I don’t  call  it  on  the  square,  and  so 
I ’ll  tell  her.” 

Letty  was  not  feeling  at  all  well  that  afternoon.  There 
are  mental  shocks  that  try  the  sensitive  as  much  as  a 
period  of  illness.  In  town  communities  the  filching  of  a 
small  piece  of  material  would  not  seem  a very  serious 
matter;  the  culprit  would  regard  it  with  indifference,  and 
the  defrauded  person  would  probably  not  take  it  very  much 
to  heart.  But  Grimpat  morals  were  very  rigid;  neither 
Letty  nor  anybody  else  regarded  a breach  of  the  eighth 
commandment  lightly. 

She  ’ll  not  want  the  gown  till  the  spring,  and  in  that 
time,  maybe,  the  Lord  will  somehow  give  me  a chance  of 
putting  things  right,”  the  girl  said ; but  she  was  not  hope- 


1104 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


ful.  Letty  meant  to  pray  very  hard,  and  to  practice  divers 
good  deeds  in  anxious  desire  of  a miracle.  But  instead  of 
a miracle  from  the  sky,  came  Mrs.  Smith  up  the  garden 
path — reticule,  umbrella,  and  widow’s  weeds  complete. 

I called  to  speak  about  that  bit  of  silk  that  you  took 
charge  of  for  my  niece,”  said  Mrs.  Smith,  after  an  inter- 
change of  greetings.  She  had  not  failed  to  observe  Letty’s 
start  of  dismay,  and  the  sudden  pallor  that  followed  it. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Smith.” 

I ’m  not  sure  when  my  niece  will  be  coming,  and  so  I 
thought  I ’d  as  well  send  her  the  bit  of  stuff,  and  let  her 
have  it  made  up  at  home;  so  I ’ll  take  it.” 

I ’ll  send  it,”  said  Letty,  it ’s  too  much  for  you  to 
carry.” 

Not  a bit,”  said  Mrs.  Smith,  the  weight  of  nine  yards 
of  silk  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I gave  you  no  linings, 
did  I?” 

The  girl  answered  No,”  faintly. 

Then  it  will  be  lighter  to  carry.” 

Letty  went  upstairs  and  took  out  the  piece  of  silk,  and 
folded  it  neatly  with  hands  that  were  as  cold  as  ice.  She 
knew  she  was  going  to  be  found  out  and  ruined.  At  the 
moment  she  wished  that  she  could  die;  if  she  were  dead, 
her  misdeed  and  Mrs.  Smith’s  comments  thereon  would 
matter  less.  She  stood  with  her  hands  resting  on  the 
folded  parcel,  waiting  for  some  merciful  miracle  of  this 
kind,  but  none  came.  Her  heart  beat  slowly  and  faintly, 
but  it  kept  on  beating.  When  Letty  saw  that  help  would 
not  come  from  this  quarter,  she  went  downstairs. 

You ’ve  tied  it  up,  have  you?  ” said  Mrs.  Smith,  a little 
suspiciously.  You  mightn’t  have  done  that  without 
measuring  it,  for  fear  you  might  give  me  somebody  else’s 
piece  instead  of  my  own.” 

That ’s  your  piece,  right  enough,”  said  Letty  dully, 
a There  was  only  one  of  that  sort.”  Then  she  clutched  at 
her  terror  with  desperation.  I ’ll  measure  it  for  you,  if 
you  like,  Mrs.  Smith.” 

This  offer  reassured  the  elder  lady.  Not  at  all.  Miss 
Moore,”  she  said  with  some  cordiality.  It ’s  been  all 
right  in  your  hands,  I ’m  sure.”  Then  she  took  her  leave 
graciously  enough. 

Letty  looked  after  the  old  woman’s  rigid  figure  as  she 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1105 


walked  away.  Maybe  she  won’t  open  it  for  a while,  and 
in  the  interval  I ’ll  make  her  ‘a  present  worth  twice  the 
value  of  what  I ’ve  took,  then  she  ’ll  know,  if  she  thinks 
about  it  at  all,  that  I ’ve  paid  her  back.” 

But  Mrs.  Smith  was  not  the  type  of  person  to  act  in  such 
an  irrelevant  manner;  she  took  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
and  gloves  when  she  reached  home,  but  she  measured  the 
silk  before  she  put  them  away,  and  the  silk  was  three- 
quarters  of  a yard  short. 

One  never  knows  people,”  said  the  lady,  nodding  to 
herself.  I would  have  thought  Letty  Moore  as  honest  as 
the  sun.  Well ! I ’ll  show  her  up.” 

Drama  was  rather  remote  from  Mrs.  Smith’s  experience, 
but  she  saw  a good  many  dramatic  possibilities  in  the 
present  situation,  and  they  exhilarated  her.  Herself  as 
a confiding  and  defrauded  person,  Letty  Moore  as  an 
abashed  culprit,  who  had  long  traded  on  the  good  faith  of 
the  community,  and  the  whole  of  Grimpat  for  an  admir- 
ing audience,  afforded  a striking  situation.  Mrs.  Smith 
banked  up  the  fire  with  ashes,  because  she  intended  to  be 
absent  some  time ; then  she  went  back  to  Letty  Moore’s. 

Letty  was  sitting  behind  the  geraniums  by  the  window. 
She  did  not  feel  able  to  work  that  evening,  and  so  was 
thankful  that  work  was  rather  slack.  Thus  it  happened 
that  she  saw  Mrs.  Smith  come  in  at  the  little  gate.  At  the 
moment  she  was  not  able  to  meet  her ; like  a terrified  child 
she  ran  upstairs  and  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow  of  her 
little  bed. 

Mrs.  Smith  knocked  till  she  w^as  tired,  then  she  lifted 
the  door  latch  and  entered.  The  kitchen  was  empty,  but 
the  worthy  woman  concluded  that  Letty  was  at  home, 
otherwise  she  would  not  have  left  the  door  on  the  latch ; she 
therefore  sat  down  to  await  her  appearance. 

Letty  had  heard  the  knocking;  the  lifting  of  the  latch 
was  a softer  sound,  and  did  not  reach  her.  In  the  pro- 
tracted silence  which  followed  she  concluded  that  Mrs. 
Smith  had  gone  away,  and  so,  after  a time,  she  picked  up 
courage  to  descend  the  stairs.  But  Mrs.  Smith  was  sitting 
in  wait  for  her  at  the  stair-foot. 

The  good  woman  had  rehearsed  every  form  of  accusation 
in  the  interval,  and  had  thought  of  saying,  You  stole  my 
silk,  give  me  back  my  silk ; ” but  at  sight  of  the  girl,  a 


1106 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


milder  mood  came  over  her,  and  she  said,  politely  enough, 
I called  about  that  silk,  it  seems  shorter  than  when  I 
left  it  with  you/^ 

It  couldn^t  be  shorter,  Mrs.  Smith,’^  said  Letty,  look- 
ing at  her  antagonist  with  terrified  eyes.  What  could 
make  it  shorter? 

That ’s  what  I donT  know,^’  said  the  visitor  firmly;  I 
only  know  that  I gave  you  nine  yards  of  silk,  and*  that  you 
gave  me  back  eight  and  a quarter.  I know,  too,  that  you 
were  trying  to  match  it,  for  I found  the  pattern  at  Mar- 
shairs.'^ 

Letty  sat  down,  her  hands  lying  listlessly  in  her  lap,  her 
face  pale  and  stricken.  People  have  committed  a murder 
and  felt  less  overwhelmed,  at  the  moment  of  arrest,  than 
did  honest,  upright  little  Letty  Moore,  in  face  of  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  was  discovered  to  have  “ conveyed  three- 
quarters  of  a yard  of  cheap  silk. 

I neednT  deny  that  I took  it,  Mrs.  Smith,  since  you 
know  all  about  it,^^  she  said  slowly.  “ I didn’t  know  it  was 
a dress  length.  I thought  it  had  been  cut  off  the  piece,  and 
that  I could  match  it.  I knew  it  came  from  Marshall’s.” 

And  what  did  you  want  with  my  silk — what  had  you 
to  do  with  it?  ” said  Mrs.  Smith,  her  anger  rising.  It 
was  stealing,  whatever  you  say.” 

I had  promised  Mary  Willett  a hood,  but  with  Mr.  Ted- 
ford’s  death,  and  all,  I was  kept  busy  until  the  last  minute ; 
when  I went  to  buy  the  silk  the  shops  were  all  closed.  If 
they  had  been  Grimpat  shops,  I would  have  knocked  and 
made  them  open,  but  I couldn’t  do  that  at  Nutford.  I felt 
as  if  I couldn’t  break  my  word  to  Mary.  Your  silk  was 
here  in  the  house,  and  when  I was  looking  for  something 
that  would  do  I came  on  it;  I thought  if  I took  what  I 
wanted  off  it  I could  put  it  back  the  next  day,  but  Mt.  Mar- 
shall says  it  can’t  be  matched.  I am  quite  willing  to  make 
it  good  to  you  in  any  way  you  like.” 

“ I ’ll  have  my  bit  of  silk,  or  nothing,”  said  Mrs.  Smith 
frigidly.  I don’t  want  your  money,  or  your  trimmings, 
or  your  matchings,  I just  want  my  material  back  again, 
and  I ’ll  have  it,  or  I ’ll  know  why.” 

Letty  said  nothing,  but  her  silence  and  her  stricken  atti- 
tude, instead  of  mollifying  Mrs.  Smith,  goaded  her  to  fury. 

If  there ’s  law  in  the  land  or  in  the  Church,”  she  went 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1107 


on,  her  voice  rising,  I ’ll  take  the  mask  off  your  face — a 
meek,  pretentious,  whited  sepulchre.  To  think  of  the 
gowns,  and  cloaks,  and  linings  folk  have  entrusted  to  you, 
Letty  Moore,  believing  in  you  as  if  you  were  the  Gospel; 
it ’s  easy  to  see  now  how  you  come  to  be  so  well-to-do,  with 
three-quarters  off  here,  and  a yard  off  there,  but  I ’ll  open 
people’s  eyes.” 

Letty  rose  and  stood  before  her  accuser. 

You  ’ll  have  to  do  what  you  think  right,”  she  said,  in 
a suffering,  toneless  voice.  I never  took  a thread  or  a 
hook-and-eye  belonging  to  living  woman  in  my  life  before. 
I have  told  you  just  the  truth  of  how  I came  to  do  it  this 
time.” 

Mrs.  Smith  gave  a snort  of  infinite  scorn.  Every  thief 
who  is  caught  says  it  was  the  first  time.  We  ’ll  see  how 
many  folks  have  missed  things  when  I show  you  up.  And 
you  teaching  in  the  Sabbath  School,  too ! Well,  next  Sab- 
bath you  can  teach  the  eighth  commandment.  To  think  of 
such  a — a whited  sepulchre ! ” In  her  vocabulary  Mrs. 
Smith  could  not  at  the  moment  find  another  term  as  scath- 
ing. As  she  spoke  she  went  out,  and  banged  the  door 
heavily  behind  her. 

Letty  resumed  the  seat  she  had  quitted,  and  leaning  her 
elbows  on  the  table,  took  her  face  between  her  hands.  She 
felt  quite  cold,  and  her  pulses  beat  in  languid  throbs.  Mrs. 
Smith  would  tell  every  one  that  she  had  stolen  her  silk,  and 
one  and  another  would  come  to  think,  in  time,  that  she  had 
always  been  dishonest.  It  would  ruin  her  business,  but,  a 
hundred  times  worse  than  that,  it  would  ruin  her  good 
name.  To  think  of  all  the  people  who  trusted  her  learning 
that  she  was  a thief!  To  think  of  the  minister,  and  John 
Willett,  and  his  mother,  who,  in  her  own  way,  had  been  dis- 
posed to  favor  her!  The  talk  would  creep  to  Nutford,  too, 
and  Mr.  Marshall,  who  had  always  thought  so  well  of  her 
as  a customer,  would  probably  set  some  one  in  future  to 
watch  her  when  she  entered,  lest  she  should  secrete  the 
reels  of  cotton  or  remnants  of  ribbon  that  were  lying  loose. 

At  this  thought  two  slow  tears  of  bitter  suffering  ran 
slowly  the  length  of  her  pale  cheeks. 

God  knows  I didn’t  mean  to  steal,”  she  said  aloud,  and 
the  tones  fell  curiously  on  the  still  air.  ‘^-God  knows  I 
never  defrauded  man  or  woman  before  of  anything  in  all 


1108 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


the  days  of  my  Then  after  a long  pause  she  added, 

There  is  always  God/’ 

She  faced  the  position  with  despairing  patience.  Even 
God  could  not  bring  her  blamelessly  through  it,  because  she 
had  taken  the  piece  of  silk ; she  was  guilty.  Had  she  been 
wrongly  accused,  she  would  have  met  whatever  followed, 
confidently  foreseeing  her  ultimate  justification;  but  for 
the  guilty  justification  was  impossible.  I can  never  hold 
up  my  head  again,”  she  said  blankly. 

After  a little,  the  sense  of  physical  prostration  passing 
away,  she  rose  and  resorted  to  her  needlework  mechani- 
cally. But  it  dropped  from  her  limp  hands — she  felt  too 
tired,  too  stupid,  and  uninterested. 

It  was  towards  dusk  when  the  door  opened,  and  the  min- 
ister came  in.  The  moment  she  saw  him  Letty  knew  what 
he  had  come  to  speak  about. 

Mr.  Witherow  was  a tall,  slim  man  with  a clearly  cut 
and  rather  rigid  face,  a face  to  which  anxieties  about  his 
congregation  had  added  as  many  lines  as  the  years  had 
done.  In  creed  Mr.  Witherow  was  a Calvinist  of  the  Cal- 
vinists, whose  ideas  of  Heaven,  and  Immortality,  and  the 
Day  of  Judgment  were  as  clearly  defined  as  his  knowledge 
of  week-day  and  Sacrament  services.  Mr.  Witherow  had 
never  doubted  once  in  his  whole  lifetime  that,  at  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  he  would  be  called  by  name  to  answer  before 
the  assembled  nations  for  each  individual  member  of  the 
congregation  committed  to  his  charge.  In  his  dreams  Mr. 
Witherow  frequently  heard  himself  asked  in  a voice  that 
was  like  a thunder-peal,  Richard  Witherow,  what  of  An- 
drew Wilson?  Richard  Witherow,  what  of  William  Burt, 
committed  to  you  in  the  long  past?  ” This  made  him 
thankful  that  his  congregation  was  small;  it  made  the 
attendant  anxieties  less,  and  showed  him  a shorter  period 
of  reckoning  on  the  Dread  Day.  But  it  kept  his  life  here 
very  strenuous,  and  loaded  him  with  a sense  of  personal 
responsibility  that  is  not  generally  felt  in  the  profes- 
sion. 

I have  had  a visit  from  Mrs.  Smith,”  the  minister  began 
simply.  She  is  in  a terrible  state  about  three-quarters  of 
a yard  of  silk  that  she  says  you  cut  off  her  dress  length.” 

I took  it,”  said  Letty  slowly.  I told  her  I took  it.” 

Mr.  Witherow  inclined  his  head  sorrowfully.  I did  not 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1109 


mean  to  steal,  and  she  knows  that,^^  Letty  pursued  stead- 
ily. I offered  her  any  compensation  she  would  accept — 
She  wishes  to  have  you  made  an  example  of ; she  says 
you  ought  to  be  excommunicated,”  said  Mr.  Witherow,  and 
his  thought  was  as  serious  as  his  words. 

If  you  will  sit  down,  sir,  I will  tell  you  just  how  it  hap- 
pened,” said  Letty,  “ and  then  if  you  think  well  to  cut  me 
off  from  the  means  of  grace — I sha^n’t  complain.”  Then 
she  told  all  the  story  over  again,  amid  slow,  unheeded  tears. 

It  is  very  unfortunate,”  Mr.  Witherow  said  with  a sigh, 
when  she  had  concluded.  To  borrow  a piece  of  silk  with- 
out leave  was  a very  small  thing  in  itself,  but  it  is  an 
opening  of  the  door  to  evil.  When  people  borrow  money 
in  that  way,  meaning  to  put  it  back,  the  act  sometimes 
brings  them  penal  servitude.” 

Letty  gave  a shudder.  I have  been  thinking  it  all  out,” 
she  said ; in  old  times  people  were  hanged  for  as  little  as 
this.” 

Indeed  yes,”  said  the  minister  thoughtfully,  ‘‘  people 
were  hanged  or  transported  for  the  merest  trifles;  a man 
got  fourteen  years^  penal  servitude  once,  and  died  under 
sentence,  for  stealing  a potato-pie.  We  have  reason  to 
thank  God  we  are  not  so  cruel  nowadays.” 

I suppose  she  could  have  me  arrested?  ” said  Letty  in  a 
dreary  voice. 

I dare  say  she  could,  and  flned,  but  I don’t  think  she 
will,  though  I hold  her  to  be  a rather  bad  kind  of  Chris- 
tian; she  only  wants  to  expose  you,  and  she  will  do  that, 
talking  among  the  neighbors,” 

I think  the  best  thing  I can  do  is  to  restore  sevenfold 
and  then  to  go  away  from  here,”  the  girl  said  huskily. 

I ’ll  make  as  good  a living  among  strangers  as  I can  do 
at  Grimpat,  once  I have  lost  my  character,  and  I would 
rather  not  wait  for  the  old  neighbors  to  give  me  the  cold 
shoulder.  I meant  no  harm,  God  knows,  but  I ’ll  have  to 
take  the  consequences  of  doing  harm,  all  the  same.” 

When  Mrs.  Smith  came  I reasoned  with  her,”  said  the 
minister  slowly.  I told  her  she  was  showing  a very  bad 
spirit,  even  if  you  were  guilty,  which  I did  not  believe.  I 
talked  to  her  very  seriously.”  Then  he  rose  to  go.  I will 
talk  to  her  again,”  he  said.  Have  you  any  objection  that 
I should  offer  to  restore  sevenfold?  The  Scriptures  do  not 


1110 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


speak  of  more,  and  fourfold  was  generally  held  to  be  suffi- 
cient.’’ 

A hundredfold,”  said  Letty  with  a sob.  I have  a 
little  money  saved  in  all  these  years.  I ’ll  give  her  any- 
thing she  asks.” 

Mr.  Witherow  felt  very  depressed  as  he  walked  down  the 
road,  not  so  much  by  the  thought  of  Lett}^’s  individual  suf- 
fering as  at  the  thought  of  all  the  suffering  that  so  often 
follows  inadequate  causes.  No  doubt  it  is  because  she 
belongs  to  the  elect  that  her  first  step  astray  is  punished 
so  severely,”  he  said  with  a sigh.  Mr.  Witherow  firmly 
believed  that  the  path  of  the  elect  here  was  thick  with 
thorns,  but  in  compensation  he  held  that  these  made  for 
the  safety  of  pedestrians  towards  the  Kingdom.  Then  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  Mrs.  Smith.  She  certainly  was  an  un- 
lovely Christian,  but  she  had  been  placed  in  his  care,  and 
he  was  responsible  for  her.  Her  unloveliness  would  not 
justify  him  if  he  had  one  day  to  answer  I do  not  know  ” 
to  the  question  Kichard  Witherow,  what  has  become  of 
Sarah  Smith?  ” 

I ’ll  tell  her  of  Letty’s  offer,”  he  said ; “ if  she  declines 
to  accept  it,  I ’ll  excommunicate  her  for  her  lack  of  char- 
ity— and  that  will  surprise  her  more  than  losing  her  silk,” 
he  added,  smiling  for  the  first  time. 

Mrs.  Smith  was  having  tea  when  Mr.  Witherow  called 
on  her.  She  was  looking  bright  and  animated,  because  she 
anticipated  interesting  results  from  the  several  calls  she 
intended  to  pay  before  bed-time. 

Mr.  Witherow  took  off  his  hat  as  he  entered,  but  he  did 
not  accept  the  seat  Mrs.  Smith  indicated,  not  intending  to 
unbend  to  the  intimacy  implied  in  a sitting  attitude. 

I have  been  to  see  Miss  Moore,”  he  began  gravely,  and 
I have  learned  all  particulars  regarding  your  loss.  Miss 
Moore  is  willing  to  restore  the  value  of  the  silk  sevenfold. 
What  is  its  value?  ” 

The  piece  cost  twenty-seven  shillings.” 

Then  let  us  assume  that  what  she  took — borrowed 
under  a misapprehension,  actually — is  worth  half-a-crown. 
In  lieu  of  that,  she  authorizes  me  to  offer  you  seventeen- 
and-sixpence.” 

I Avon’t  take  it,”  said  Mrs.  Smith  triumphantly.  “ I 


MRS.  ESLER. 


1111 


would  rather  show  her  up  than  have  the  price  of  twenty 
silk  dresses/^ 

If  YOU  don’t  accept  Miss  Moore’s  offer,”  said  the  min- 
ister imperturbably,  I will  summon  you  before  the  Ses- 
sion. A woman  who  would  want  to  destroy  the  character 
and  prospects  of  a girl  who  has  lived  in  our  midst  since 
childhood,  and  is  a credit  to  the  community — ” 

“ A canting  publican,”  interrupted  Mrs.  Smith. 

A credit  to  the  community,”  Mr.  Witherow  repeated 
firmly.  The  woman  who  would  want  to  destroy  her  and 
her  prospects  for  a half-crown  matter,  is  not  only  a bad 
Christian,  but  a bad  woman.” 

Me ! ” said  Mrs.  Smith,  with  a shriek. 

If  the  matter  comes  before  the  Session  we  shall  have  no 
option  but  to  excommunicate  you,”  Mr.  Witherow  went  on. 

It  will  be  a great  grief  to  your  children  in  America  to 
learn  that  the  church  in  which  their  father  was  an  elder 
has  been  obliged  to  excommunicate  their  mother.  It  will 
be  a blot  on  the  family  history.” 

I want  nothing  but  my  own  again,  I have  a right  to 
that,”  Mrs.  Smith  maintained  stoutly,  but  the  usual  color 
of  her  cheek  looked  thin  and  veinous,  and  her  breath  came 
hurriedly. 

To  restore  your  own  little  bit  of  silk  is  impossible 
under  the  circumstances.  Miss  Moore  acknowledges  that 
she  took  it.  The  Bible  exacts  nothing  but  confession  and 
fourfold  restitution ; Miss  Moore  offers  sevenfold — you  had 
better  accept  her  offer.” 

She ’s  got  you  on  her  side,”  said  Mrs.  Smith  bitterly. 
A sleek,  canting — ” 

Mrs.  Smith,”  said  the  minister,  I hope  I shall  al- 
ways be  found  on  the  side  of  the  merciful.  I desire  noth- 
ing better  either  now  or  at  the  Last  Da}^  The  wish  to 
ruin  a poor  young  friendless  girl  could  only  be  prompted 
by  the  devil,  and  as  a minister  of  the  Gospel  I will  oppose 
it,  in  every  corner  of  the  parish.  This  is  my  last  word.  I 
am  very  sorry  that  a woman  of  your  age,  so  long  held  in 
esteem  by  the  neighbors,  should  have  ever  wished  to  act 
such  a cruel  and  evil  part.  Good-evening.” 

Mr.  Witherow  had  scarcely  reached  the  little  gate  out- 
side the  cottage  ere  Mrs.  Smith  was  after  him.  I will 
take  that  seventeen-and-sixpence,”  she  said. 


1112 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Mr.  Witlierow  turned.  ‘‘  Do  you  understand  what  that 
binds  you  to?  he  asked.  If  you  accept  restitution,  and 
subsequently  talk  of  your  loss,  you  will  be  guilty  of 
slander,  a serious  offense  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  of  the 
land.’’ 

“ I wouldn’t  be  bothered  with  it,”  said  Mrs.  Smith 
fiercely.  To  tie  one  hand  and  foot  and  tongue,  and  every- 
thing, and  call  this  a free  country,  too ! ” 

Mr.  Witherow  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  woman’s  trem- 
bling shoulder.  Mrs.  Smith,”  he  said,  your  husband 
was  one  of  the  oldest  elders  in  my  congregation  when  I was 
ordained;  his  was  a gentle  and  beautiful  nature;  he  was 
one  of  the  elect — his  memory  is  yet  fragrant  in  our  midst. 
You  are  yourself  a woman,  the  mother  of  other  women ; you 
have  been  young ; possibly  that  experience  is  not  so  remote 
that  you  are  unable  to  recall  it.  Try  on  that  account  to 
feel  generously,  and,  because  of  all  that  is  honorable  in 
your  life-history,  to  act  generously  towards  a sister  wo- 
man. No  one  ever  regrets  a good  deed,  while  a deliberate 
cruelty  cannot  fail  to  plant  a sharp  thorn  in  that  last  pil- 
low on  which  each  of  us  must  ultimately  lay  his  or  her 
dying  head.  You  have  now  an  opportunity  of  behaving 
nobly  and  making  me  proud  of  you.  I will  leave  it  to  your- 
self to  think  whether  or  not  you  will  embrace  the  oppor- 
tunity.” 

Towards  eight  o’clock  Letty  Moore  was  reading  her 
Bible;  there  are  times  when  people  find  that  the  only 
refuge.  ^ I will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  my  help,’  ” she  read  aloud ; as  she  did  so, 
she  turned  her  face  involuntarily  towards  the  window; 
but  it  was  night,  and  the  blind  Avas  doAvn.  At  that  mo- 
ment there  came  a peremptory  knock  to  the  door.  Letty 
opened  it,  and  Mrs.  Smith  came  in.  To  see  the  girl  quail 
at  her  approach  gave  the  old  woman  her  last  moment  of 
evil  pleasure. 

I came  to  speak  about  that  silk,”  she  said. 

Letty  did  not  answer ; she  only  waited  for  the  terrible  an- 
nouncement that  Avas  likely  to  folloAV.  I was  thinking 
that  maybe  you  might  like  to  buy  the  whole  of  it,”  she  AA^ent 
on.  It  cost  twenty-scA^en  shillings  new — you  can  ha\^e  it 
for  that.” 

Mrs.  Smith  Avas  surprised  and  a little  dismayed  at  the 


3IRS.  ESLEB. 


1113 


passion  of  Letty’s  sudden  burst  of  tears.  “ You  are  a good 
woman/’  she  said  between  her  sobs,  a good,  good  woman, 
though  I thought  hard  things  about  you ! I suppose  it  was 
because  I was  that  miserable.  You  are  a good  woman ! ” 
Letty  always  maintained  that  nobody  knew  the  greatness 
of  Mrs.  Smith’s  nature  till  there  was  occasion  to  test  it ; in 
proof  of  her  greatness  she  adduced  that  Mrs.  Smith  hated 
to  be  praised.  When  Letty  married  John  Willett,  Mrs. 
Smith  sat  beside  the  minister  at  the  wedding-feast.  Be- 
yond the  circle  of  those  three,  there  never  crept  a whisper 
of  Letty’s  misdoing ; it  is  the  solitary  secret  the  latter  ever 
kept  from  her  husband.  As  to  the  piece  of  silk,  it  still  lies 
in  Letty’s  best-room  bottom  drawer,  and  when  she  wants  to 
remind  herself  that  well-meaning  people  may  go  far  astray 
under  sudden  temptation,  or  that  human  hearts  are  often 
kinder  than  the  careless  would  believe,  she  takes  out  the 
piece  of  silk  and  looks  at  it. 


THOMAS  ETTINGSALL 


(1800?— 1850.) 

Thomas  Ettingsall  was  born  about  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  He  kept  a fishing-tackle  establishment  at  Woods  Quay, 
Dublin,  about  1824,  and  afterward  removed  to  Cork  Hill.  He  was 
a clever  and  witty  writer  and  contributed  sketches  and  stories  to 
The  Irish  Penny  Journal  (1840)  and  the  Dublin  Penny  Journal 
(1832). 

It  was  in  the  last-named  magazine,  Dec.  15,  1832,  that  his  ‘ Darby 
Doyle’s  Voyage  to  Quebec,’  which  has  been  often  erroneously  at- 
tributed to  Lover,  appeared.  He  was  concerned  with  H.  B.  Code 
in  the  authorship  of  ‘ The  Angling  Excursions  of  Gregory  Green- 
drake,’  which  was  published  in  Dublin  in  1824.  He  was  “ Geoffrey 
Greydrake  ” of  that  work,  which  was  reprinted  from  The  Warder. 
He  died,  in  poor  circumstances  it  is  said,  about  1850. 


DARBY  DOYLE^S  VOYAGE  TO  QUEBEC. 

I tuck  the  road,  one  fine  morning  in  May,  from  Inche- 
gelagh,  an’  got  up  to  the  Cove  safe  an’  sound.  There  I 
saw  many  ships  with  big  broad  boords  fastened  to  ropes, 
every  one  ov  them  saying,  The  first  vessel  for  Quebec.” 
Siz  I to  myself,  Those  are  about  to  run  for  a wager;  this 
one  siz  she  ’ll  be  first,  and  that  one  siz  she  ’ll  be  first.”  At 
any  rate,  I pitched  on  one  that  was  finely  painted,  and 
looked  long  and  slender  like  a corragh  on  the  Shannon. 
When  I wint  on  boord  to  ax  the  fare,  who  sliou’d  come  up 
out  ov  a hole  but  Ned  Flinn,  an  ould  townsman  ov  my 
own.  Och,  is  it  yoorself  that ’s  there,  Ned?  ” siz  I ; are 
ye  goin’  to  Amerrykey?  ” Why,  an’  to  be  sure,”  siz  he; 

I ’m  mate  ov  the  ship.”  Meat!  that ’s  yer  sort,  Ned,” 
siz  I ; then  we  ’ll  only  want  bread.  Hadn’t  I betther  go 
and  pay  my  way?  ” You  ’re  time  enough,”  siz  Ned ; I ’ll 
tell  you  when  we  ’re  ready  for  sea — leave  the  rest  to  me. 
Darby.”  Och,  tip  us  your  fist,”  siz  I ; you  were  always 
the  broath  ov  a boy;  for  the  sake  ov  ould  times,  Ned,  we 
must  have  a dhrop.” 

So,  my  jewel,  Ned  brought  me  to  where  there  was  right 
good  stuff.  When  it  got  up  to  three  o’clock  I found  myself 
mighty  weak  with  hunger.  I got  the  smell  ov  corn  beef  an’ 

Hi4 


THOMAS  ETTi:^GSALL, 


1115 


cabbage  that  knock’d  me  up  entirely.  I then  wint  to  the 
landleddy,  and  siz  I to  her,  Maybee  your  leddyship  id  not 
think  me  rood  by  axin’  iv  Ned  and  myself  cou’d  get  our 
dinner  ov  that  fine  hot  mate  that  I got  a taste  ov  in  my 
nose?”  “In  troath  you  can,”  siz  she  (an’  she  look’d 
mighty  pleasant),  “ an’  welkim.”  So,  my  darlin’  dish  and 
all  came  up.  “ That ’s  what  I call  a flaugholoch  ^ mess,”  siz 
I.  So  we  eat  and  drank  away.  Many ’s  the  squeeze  Ned 
gave  my  fist,  telling  me  to  leave  it  all  to  him,  and  how 
comfortable  he ’d  make  me  on  the  voyage.  Day  afther  day 
we  spint  together,  waitin’  for  the  wind,  till  I found  my 
pockets  begin  to  grow  very  light. 

At  last,  siz  he  to  me,  one  day  afther  dinner,  “ Darby,  the 
ship  will  be  ready  for  sea  on  the  morrow — you ’d  betther 
go  on  boord,  an’  pay  your  way.”  “ Is  it  jokin’  you  are, 
Ned?  ” siz  I;  “ shure  you  tould  me  to  leave  it  all  to  you.” 
“ Ah ! Darby,”  siz  he,  “ you  ’re  for  takin’  a rise  out  o’  me ; 
shure  enough,  ye  were  the  lad  that  was  never  without  a 
joke — the  very  priest  himself  cou’dn’t  get  over  ye.  But, 
Darby,  there ’s  no  joke  like  the  thrue  one.  I ’ll  stick  to  my 
promise;  but.  Darby,  you  must  pay  your  way.”  “ O Ned,” 
siz  I,  “ is  this  the  way  you  ’re  goin’  to  threat  me  afther 
all?  I ’m  a rooin’d  man;  all  I cou’d  scrape  together  I spint 
on  you.  If  you  don’t  do  something  for  me,  I ’m  lost.  Is 
there  no  place  where  you  cou’d  hide  me  from  the  captin?  ” 
“Not  a place,”  siz  Ned.  “ An’  where,  Ned,  is  the  place  I 
saw  you  coinin’  out  ov?  ” “ Oh,  Darby,  that  w^as  the  hould 
where  the  cargo ’s  stow’d.”  “ An’  is  there  no  other  place?  ” 
siz  I.  “ Oh,  yes,”  siz  he,  “ where  we  keep  the  wather 
casks.”  “ An’,  Ned,”  siz  I,  “ does  any  one  live  down 
there?  ” “ Not  a mother’s  soul,”  siz  he.  “ An’,  Ned,”  siz 
I,  “ can’t  you  cram  me  down  there,  and  give  me  a lock  ov 
straw  an’  a bit?  ” “ Why,  Darby,”  siz  he  (an’  he  look’d 

mighty  pittyful),  “ I must  thry.  But  mind.  Darby,  you  ’ll 
have  to  hide  all  day  in  an  empty  barrel,  an’  when  it  comes 
to  my  watch,  I ’ll  bring  you  down  some  prog;  but  if  you  ’re 
diskiver’d,  it ’s  all  over  with  me,  an’  you  ’ll  be  put  on  a 
dissilute  island  to  starve.”  “ O Ned,”  siz  I,  “ leave  it  all  to 
me.”  “ Never  fear.  Darby,  I ’ll  mind  my  eye.”  When 
night  cum  on  I got  down  into  the  dark  cellar,  among  the 
barrels;  poor  Ned  fixt  a place  in  a corner  for  me  to  sleep, 
1 Flaugholoch,  princely— i.  e.  a fine  mess. 


1116 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


an’  every  night  he  brought  me  down  hard  black  cakes  an’ 
salt  meat.  There  I lay  snug  for  a whole  month. 

At  last,  one  night,  siz  he  to  me,  Now,  Darby,  what ’s 
to  be  done?  we’re  within  three  days’  sail  of  Quebec;  the 
ship  will  be  overhauled,  and  all  the  passengers’  names 
call’d  over ; if  you  are  found,  you  ’ll  be  sould  as  a slave  for 
your  passage  money.”  An’  is  that  all  that  frets  you, 
my  jewel,”  siz  I ; can’t  you  leave  it  all  to  me?  In  throath, 
Ned,  I ’ll  never  forget  your  hospitality  at  any  rate.  But, 
tWhat  place  is  outside  of  the  ship?  ” “ Why,  the  sea,  to  be 
sure,”  siz  he.  Och ! botheration,”  siz  I,  I mean  what ’s 
the  outside  the  ship?  ” Why,  Darby,”  siz  he,  part  of 
it ’s  called  the  bulwark.”  An’  fire  an’  faggots,”  siz  I,  is 
it  bulls  work  the  vessel  along?  ” No,  nor  horses,”  siz 
he,  neither;  this  is  no  time  for  jokin’;  what  do  you  mean 
to  do?  ” Why,  I ’ll  tell  you,  Ned;  get  me  an  empty  meal- 
bag,  a bottle,  an’  a bare  ham-bone,  and  that ’s  all  I ’ll  ax.” 
So,  begad,  Ned  look’d  very  queer  at  me;  so  he  got  them  for 
me,  anyhow.  Well,  Ned,”  siz  I,  you  know  I ’m  a great 
shwimmer;  your  watch  will  be  early  in  the  mornin’;  I’ll 
jist  slip  down  into  the  sea;  do  you  cry  out,  there’s  a man 
in  the  wather,  as  loud  as  you  can,  and  leave  all  the  rest  to 
me.” 

Well,  to  be  sure,  down  into  the  sea  I dropt  without  so 
much  as  a splash.  Ned  roared  out  with  the  hoarseness  of  a 
brayin’  ass — a man  in  the  sea ! a man  in  the  sea ! ” Every 
man,  woman,  and  child  came  running  up  out  of  the  holes, 
the  captin  among  the  rest,  who  put  a long  red  barrel  like  a 
gun  to  his  eye — gibbet  me,  but  I thought  he  was  for 
shootin’  me ! down  I dived.  When  I got  my  head  over  the 
wather  agen,  what  shou’d  I see  but  a boat  rowin’  to  me,  as 
fast  as  a throut  afther  a pinkeen.^  When  it  came  up  close 
enough  to  be  heard,  I roared  out : Bad  end  to  yees,  for  a 

set  ov  spalpeen  rascals,  did  ye  hear  me  at  last?  ” The  boat 
now  run  ’pon  the  top  ov  me ; down  I dived  agen  like  a duck 
afther  a frog,  but  the  minnit  my  skull  came  over  the 
wather,  I was  gript  by  the  scruft  ov  the  neck,  and  dhragged 
into  the  boat.  To  be  shure,  I didn’t  kick  up  a row — Let 
go  my  hair,  ye  blue  devils,”  I roared;  “ it ’s  well  ye  have  me 
in  your  marcy  in  this  dissilute  place,  or  by  the  powthers 
I ’d  make  ye  feel  the  strinth  ov  my  bones.  What  hard  look 
1 Pinkeen,  a small  fish. 


TEOMAS  ETTIEG^ALL. 


1117 


I had  to  follow  yees,  at  all  at  all — which  ov  ye  is  the  mas- 
ther?  As  I sed  this  every  mother’s  son  began  to  stare  at 
me,  with  my  bag  round  my  neck,  an’  my  bottle  by  my  side, 
an’  the  bare  bone  in  my  fist.  There  he  is,”  siz  they, 
pointin’  to  a little  yellow  man  in  a corner  of  the  boat. 

“ May  the rise  blisthers  on  your  rapin’-hook  shins,” 

siz  I,  you  yallow-lookin’  monkey,  but  it ’s  a’most  time  for 
you  to  think  ov  lettin’  me  into  your  ship — I ’m  here  plowin’ 
and  plungin’  this  month  afther  ye;  shure  I didn’t  care 
a thratvneen  was  it  not  that  you  have  my  best  Sunday 
clothes  in  your  ship,  and  my  name  in  your  books.  For 
three  sthraws,  if  I don’t  know  how  to  write,  I ’d  leave  my 
mark,  an’  that  on  your  skull  ” ; so  saying  I made  a lick  at 
him  with  the  ham-bone,  but  I was  near  tumblin’  into  the 
sea  agen.  An’,  pray,  what  is  your  name,  my  lad?  ” siz 
the  captin.  What ’s  my  name ! What  id  you  give  to 
know?”  siz  I;  ye  unmannerly  spalpeen,  it  might  be 
what ’s  your  name.  Darby  Doyle,  out  ov  your  mouth — ay. 
Darby  Doyle,  that  was  never  afraid  or  ashamed  to  own  it 
at  home  or  abroad ! ” An’,  Mr.  Darby  Doyle,”  siz  he,  do 
you  mean  to  persuade  us  that  you  swum  from  Cork  to  this 
afther  us?”  This  is  more  ov  your  ignorance,”  siz  I — 
ay,  an’  if  you  sted  three  days  longer  and  not  take  me  up, 
I ’d  be  in  Quebec  before  ye,  only  my  purvisions  were  out, 
and  the  few  rags  ov  bank  notes  I had  all  melted  into  paste 
in  my  pocket,  for  I hadn’t  time  to  get  them  changed.  But 
stay,  wait  till  I get  my  foot  on  shore;  there’s  ne’er  a cot- 
toner  in  Cork  iv  you  don’t  pay  for  leavin’  me  to  the  marcy 
ov  the  waves.” 

All  this  time  the  blue  chaps  were  pushin’  the  boat  with 
sticks  through  the  wather,  till  at  last  we  came  close  to  the 
ship.  Every  one  on  board  saw  me  at  the  Cove,  but  didn’t 
see  me  on  the  voyage ; to  be  sure,  every  one ’s  mouth  was 

wide  open,  crying  out  Darby  Doyle.  The stop  your 

throats,”  siz  I,  it ’s  now  you  call  me  loud  enough ; ye 
wouldn’t  shout  that  way  when  ye  saw  me  rowlin’  like  a tub 
in  a millrace  the  other  day  forenenst  your  faces.”  When 
they  heard  me  say  that,  some  of  them  grew  pale  as  a sheet 
— every  thumb  was  at  work  till  they  a’most  brought  the 
blood  from  their  forreds.  But,  my  jewel,  the  captin  does 
no  more  than  runs  to  the  book,  an’  calls  out  the  names  that 
paid,  and  them  that  wasn’t  paid — to  be  shure,  I was  one  ov 


1118 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


them  that  didn’t  pay.  If  the  captin  looked  at  me  before 
with  ivondlierment , he  now  looked  with  astonishment ! 

Nothin’  was  tawk’d  ov  for  the  other  three  days  but  Darby 
Doyle’s  great  shwim  from  the  Cove  to  Quebec.  One  sed, 
I always  knew  Darby  to  be  a great  shwimmer.”  Do 
ye  remimber,”  siz  another,  when  Darby’s  dog  was  nigh 
been  drownded  in  the  great  duck  hunt,  when  Darby  peeled 
olf  and  brought  in  the  dog,  and  made  afther  the  duck  him- 
self, and  swum  for  two  hours  endways;  and  do  ye  remimber 
when  all  the  dogs  gother  round  the  duck  at  one  time ; whin 
it  wint  down  how  Darby  dived  afther  it,  and  sted  down 
for  a’most  an  hour — and  sted  below  while  the  creathur 
was  eatin’  a few  frogs,  for  she  was  weak  an’  hungry;  and 
when  everybody  thought  he  was  lost,  up  he  came  with  the 
duck  by  the  leg  in  his  kithogue?  ” ^ 

Begar,  I agreed  to  all  thej^  sed,  till  at  last  we  got  to 
Amerrykey.  I was  now  in  a quare  way;  the  captin 
wouldn’t  let  me  go  till  a friend  of  his  would  see  me.  By 
this  time,  my  jewel,  not  only  his  friends  came,  but  swarms 
upon  swarms,  starin’  at  poor  Darby.  At  last  I called  Ned. 

Ned,  avic,”  siz  I,  I want  to  go  about  my  hisness.’^  Be 
easy.  Darby,”  siz  he;  haven’t  ye  your  fill  ov  good  aitin’? 
an’  the  captin’s  got  mighty  fond  ov  ye  entirely.”  “ Is  he, 
Ned?”  siz  I;  but  tell  us,  Ned,  are  all  them  crowds  ov 
people  goin’  to  sea?”  “ Augh,  ye  omadhaun,”  ^ siz  Ned, 
‘‘  sure  they  are  come  to  look  at  you.”  Just  as  he  said  this, 
a tall  yallow  man,  with  a black  curl^^  head,  comes  and 
stares  me  full  in  the  face.  “ You  ’ll  know  me  agen,”  says  I, 
bad  luck  to  yer  manners  and  the  schoolmasther  that 
taught  ye.”  But  I thought  he  was  goin’  to  shake  hands 
with  me,  when  he  tuck  hould  ov  my  fist  and  opened  every 
finger,  one  by  one,  then  opened  my  shirt  and  look’t  at  my 
breast.  Pull  away,  ma-bouchal,”  siz  I,  I ’m  no  desar- 
thur,  at  any  rate.”  But  never  an  answer  he  made,  but 
walk’d  down  into  the  hole  where  the  captin  lived.  This 
is  more  ov  it,”  siz  I;  Ned,  what  cou’d  that  tallah-faced 
man  mean?  ” Why,”  siz  Ned,  he  was  lookin^  to  see  iv 
your  fingers  were  webb’d,  or  had  ye  scales  on  your  breast.” 
His  impidence  is  great,”  siz  I ; “ did  he  take  me  for  a duck 
or  a bream?  But,  Ned,  what ’s  the  meanin’  ov  the  boords 
acrass  the  stick  the  people  walk  on,  and  the  big  white  boord 
^ Kithogue,  left  hand.  ^ Omadhaun,  silly  fellow. 


THOMAS  ETTINGSALL. 


1119 


up  there?  Why,  come  over  and  read,’’  siz  Ned.  But, 
my  jewel,  I didn’t  know  whether  I was  stannin’  on  my  head 
or  on  my  heels  when  I saw  in  great  big  black  letters — 


THE  GREATEST  WONDHER  OP  THE  WORLD  ! ! ! 

TO  BE  SEEN  HERE, 

A Man  that  heats  out  Nicholas  the  Diver! 

He  has  swum  from  Cork  to  Amerrykey ! ! 

Proved  on  oath  by  ten  of  the  Crew  and  twenty  Passengers. 
Admittance  Half  a Dollar. 


Bloody  wars ! Ned,”  siz  I,  does  this  mean  your  humble 
sarvint?”  Divil  another,”  siz  he, — so  I makes  no  more 
ado,  than  with  a hop,  skip,  and  jump,  gets  over  to  the 
captin,  who  was  now  talkin’  to  the  yallow  fellow  that  was 
afther  starin’  me  out  ov  countenance.  Pardon  my  rude- 
ness, your  honor,”  siz  I,  mighty  polite,  and  makin’  a bow 
— at  the  same  time  Ned  was  at  my  heels — so  rising  my  foot 
to  give  the  genteel  scrape,  sure  I scraped  all  the  skin  off 
Ned’s  shins.  May  bad  luck  to  your  brogues,”  siz  he. 

You ’d  betther  not  curse  the  wearer,”  siz  I,  or  ” 

Oh,  Darby ! ” siz  the  captin,  “ don’t  be  unginteel,  an’  so 
many  ladies  and  gintlemin  lookin’  at  ye.”  The  never  an 
other  mother’s  soul  shall  lay  their  peepers  on  me  till  I see 
sweet  Inchegelagli  agen,”  says  I.  Begar  ye  are  doin’  it 
well.  How  much  money  have  ye  gother  for  my  shwim- 
min’?  ” Be  quiet.  Darby,”  siz  the  captin,  and  he  looked 
very  much  friekened.  I have  plenty,  an’  I ’ll  have  more 
for  ye  iv  ye  do  what  I want  ye  to  do.”  An’  w^hat  is  it, 
avic?  ” siz  I.  ‘‘  Why,  Darby,”  siz  he,  I ’m  afther  houldin’ 
a wager  last  night  with  this  gintleman  for  all  the  worth  ov 
my  ship,  that  you  ’ll  shwim  against  any  shwimmer  in  the 
world;  an’.  Darby,  if  ye  don’t  do  that,  I ’m  a gone  man.” 
“ Augh,  give  us  your  fist,”  siz  I ; did  ye  ever  hear  ov 
Paddy’s  dishaving  any  man  in  the  European  world  yet — 
barrin’  themselves?  ” Well,  Darby,”  siz  he,  I ’ll  give 
you  a hundred  dollars;  but.  Darby,  you  must  be  to  your 
word,  and  you  shall  have  another  hundred.” 

So  sayin’,  he  brought  me  down  into  the  cellar;  but,  my 
jewel,  I didn’t  think  for  the  life  ov  me  to  see  such  a won- 


1120 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


dherful  place — nothin’  but  goold  every  way  I turned,  and 
Darby’s  own  sweet  face  in  twenty  places.  Begar  I was 
a’ruost  ashamed  to  ax  the  gintleman  for  the  dollars.  “ But,” 
siz  I to  myself  agen,  the  gintleman  has  too  much  money. 
I suppose  he  does  be  throwin’  it  into  the  sea,  for  I often 
heard  the  sea  was  richer  than  the  land,  so  I may  as  well 
take  it  anyhow.”  Now,  Darby,”  siz  he,  here ’s  the  dol- 
lars for  ye.”  But,  begar,  it  was  only  a bit  of  paper  he  was 
handin’  me.  Arrah,  none  ov  yer  tricks  upon  thravelers,” 
siz  I ; I had  betther  nor  that,  and  many  more  ov  them, 
melted  in  the  sea;  give  me  what  won’t  wash  out  ov  my 
pocket.”  Why,  Darby,”  siz  he,  this  is  an  ordher  on  a 
merchant  for  the  amount.”  Pho,  pho ! ” siz  I,  I ’d  sooner 
take  your  word  nor  his  oath  ” — lookin’  round  mighty  re- 
spectful at  the  goold  walls.  Well,  Darby,”  siz  he,  ye 
must  have  the  real  thing.”  So,  by  the  powthers,  he  reck- 
on’d me  out  a hundred  dollars  in  goold.  I never  saw  the 
Iflve  since  the  stockin’  fell  out  of  the  chimly  on  my  aunt 
and  cut  her  forred.  Now,  Darby,”  siz  he,  ye  are  a rich 
man,  an’  ye  are  worthy  of  it  all — sit  down.  Darby,  an’  take 
a bottle  ov  wine.”  So  to  please  the  gintleman,  I sat  down. 
Afther  a bit,  who  comes  down  but  Ned.  Captin,”  siz  he, 
the  deck  is  crowded ; I had  to  block  up  the  gangway  to 
prevint  any  more  from  cornin’  in  to  see  Darby.  Bring  him 
up,  or,  blow  me,  iv  the  ship  won’t  be  sunk.”  Come  up. 
Darby,”  siz  the  captin’,  lookin’  roguish  pleasant  at  myself. 
So,  my  jewel,  he  handed  me  up  through  the  hall  as  tendher 
as  iv  I was  a lady,  or  a pound  ov  fresh  butther  in  the  dog 
days. 

When  I got  up,  shure  enough,  I couldn’t  help  starin’; 
such  crowds  of  fine  ladies  and  yallow  gintlemen  never  was 
seen  before  in  any  ship.  One  ov  them,  a little  rosy-cheek’d 
beauty,  whispered  the  captin  somethin’,  but  he  shuk  his 
head,  and  then  came  over  to  me.  Darby,”  siz  he,  I know 
an  Irishman  would  do  anything  to  please  a lady.”  In 
throth  you  may  say  that  with  yer  own  ugly  mouth,”  siz  I. 
“ Well,  then.  Darby,”  siz  he,  the  ladies  would  wish  to  see 
you  give  a few  strokes  in  the  sea.”  Och,  an’  they  shall 
have  them  in  welcome,”  siz  I.  That ’s  a good  fellow,”  siz 
he;  now  strip  off.”  ^‘Decency,  Katty,”  siz  I;  is  it  in 
my  mother-naked  pelt  before  the  ladies?  Bad  luck  to  the 
undacent  brazen-faced — but  no  matther!  Irish  girls  for- 


THOMAS  ETTIHGSALH 


1121 


ever,  afther  all ! But  all  to  no  use.  I was  made  to  peel 
off  behind  a big  sheet,  and  then  I made  one  race  and  jumpt 
ten  yards  into  the  wather  to  get  out  ov  their  sight.  Shure 
enough,  every  one’s  eyes  danced  in  their  head,  while  they 
look’d  on  the  spot  where  I went  down.  A thought  came 
into  my  head  while  I was  below,  how  I ’d  show  them  a little 
divarsion,  as  I could  use  a great  many  thricks  on  the 
wather.  So  I didn’t  rise  at  all  till  I got  to  the  tother  side, 
and  every  one  run  to  that  side;  then  I took  a hoult  ov  my 
two  big  toes,  and,  makin’  a ring  ov  myself,  rowled  like  a 
hoop  on  the  top  ov  the  wather  all  round  the  ship.  I b’leeve 
I opened  their  eyes ! Then  I yarded,  back-swum,  an’  dived, 
till  at  last  the  captin  made  signs  for  me  to  come  out,  so  I 
got  into  the  boat  an’  threw  on  my  duds.  The  very  ladies 
were  breakin’  their  necks  runnin’  to  shake  hands  with  me. 
“ Shure,”  siz  they,  you  ’re  the  greatest  man  in  the 
world ! ! ” So  for  three  days  I showed  off  to  crowds  ov 
people,  though  I was  fryin’  in  the  wather  for  shame. 

At  last  the  day  came  that  I was  to  stand  the  tug.  I saw 
the  captin  lookin’  very  often  at  me.  At  last,  Darby,”  siz 
he,  are  you  anyway  cow’d?  The  fellow  you  have  to  shwim 
agenst  can  shwim  down  wather  falls  an’  catharacts.” 
Can,  he,  avic?  ” siz  I ; but  can  he  shwim  up  agenst  them? 
Wow,  wow.  Darby,  for  that ! But,  captin,  come  here ; is  all 
my  purvisions  ready? — don’t  let  me  fall  short  ov  a dhrop 
ov  the  rale  stuff  above  all  things.”  An’  who  shou’d  come 
up  while  I was  tawkin’  to  the  captin  but  the  chap  I was  to 
shwim  with,  an’  heard  all  I sed.  Begar ! his  eyes  grew  as 
big  as  two  oysther  shells.  Then  the  captin  call’d  me  aside. 

Darby,”  siz  he,  do  ye  put  on  this  green  jacket  an’  white 
throwsers,  that  the  people  may  betther  extinguish  you  from 
the  other  chap.”  With  all  hearts,  avic,”  siz  I,  green  for 
ever — Darby’s  own  favorite  color  the  world  over ; but 
where  am  I goin’  to,  captin?”  To  the  shwimmin’  place, 
to  be  shure,”  siz  he.  Divil  shoot  the  failers  an’  take  the 
hindmost,”  siz  I;  here ’s  at  ye.” 

I was  then  inthro juiced  to  the  shwimmer.  I look’d  at 
him  from  head  to  foot.  He  was  so  tall  that  he  could  eat 
bread  an’  butther  over  my  head — with  a face  as  yallow  as  a 
kite’s  foot.  Tip  up  the  mitten,”  siz  I,  ma-bouchal,”  siz 
I.  (But,  begad,  I was  puzzled.  Begar,”  siz  I to  myself, 
I ’m  done.  Cheer  up,  Darby  I If  I ’m  not  able  to  kill  him, 

15— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1122 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


I ’ll  frighten  the  life  out  ov  him.”)  Where  are  we  goin’ 
to  shwiiii  to?  ” But  never  a word  he  answered.  Are  ye 
bothered,  neighbor?  ” I reckon  I ’m  not,”  siz  he,  mighty 
chuff.  Well,  then,”  siz  I,  why  didn’t  ye  answer  your  bet- 
thers?  What  id  ye  think  iv  we  shwum  to  Keep  Cleer  or  the 
Keep  ov  Good  Hope?  ” I reckon  neither,”  siz  he  agen, 
eyein’  me  as  iv  I was  goin’  to  pick  his  pockets.  Well, 
then,  have  ye  any  favorite  place?  ” siz  I.  Now,  I ’ve 
lieard  a great  deal  about  the  place  where  poor  Boney  died ; 
I ’d  like  to  see  it,  iv  I ’d  any  one  to  show  me  the  place; 
suppose  we  wint  there?  ” Not  a taste  of  a word  cou’d  I get 
out  ov  him,  good  or  bad. 

Off  we  set  through  the  crowds  ov  ladies  an’  gintlemen. 
Such  cheerin’  and  wavin’  ov  hats  was  never  seen  even  at 
Dan’s  enthry ; an’  then  the  row  ov  purty  girls  laughin’  an’ 
rubbin’  up  against  me,  that  I cou’d  Iiar’ly  get  on.  To  be 
shure,  no  one  cou’d  be  lookin’  to  the  ground,  an’  not  be 
lookin’  at  them,  till  at  last  I was  thript  up  by  a big  loomp 
ov  iron  stuck  fast  in  the  ground  with  a big  ring  to  it. 

Whoo,  Darby ! ” siz  I,  makin’  a hop  an’  a crack  ov  my 
fingers,  you  ’re  not  doAvn  yet.”  I turn’d  roun’  to  look  at 
what  thript  me.  What  d’  ye  call  that?  ” siz  I to  the 
captin,  who  was  at  my  elbow.  Why,  Darby?”  siz  he; 

that ’s  half  an  anchor.”  Have  ye  any  use  for  it?  ” siz 
I.  ^‘Not  in  the  least,”  siz  he;  ^^it’s  only  to  fasten  boats 
to.”  Maybee,  you ’d  give  it  to  a body,”  siz  I.  An’  wei- 
kim,  Darb}',”  siz  he ; it ’s  yours.”  God  bless  your 
honor,  sir,”  siz  I,  it ’s  my  poor  father  that  will  pray  for 
you.  When  I left  home  the  creather  hadn’t  as  much  as  an 
anvil  but  what  was  sthreeled  away  by  the  agint — bad  end 
to  them.  This  will  be  jist  the  thing  that  ’ll  match  him;  he 
can  tie  the  horse  to  the  ring,  while  he  forges  on  the  other 
part. 

Now,  will  ye  obleege  me  by  gettin’  a couple  ov  chaps  to 
lay  it  on  my  shoulder  when  I get  into  the  wather,  and  I 
won’t  have  to  be  cornin’  back  for  it  afther  I shake  bans  with 
this  fellow.”  Begar,  the  chap  turned  from  yallow  to  white 
when  he  heard  me  say  this.  An’  siz  he  to  the  gintleman 
that  was  walkin’  by  his  side,  I reckon  I ’m  not  fit  for  the 
shwimmin’  to-day — I don’t  feel  myself.”  An’  murdher 
an  Irish,  if  you  ’re  yer  brother,  can’t  you  send  him  for  yer- 
gelf,  an’  I ’ll  wait  here  til^te  comes?  Here,  man,  take  a 


TEOMA^  ETTIEG^ALL, 


1123 


dhrop  ov  this  before  ye  go.  Here ’s  to  yer  betther  health, 
and  your  brother’s  into  the  bargain.”  So  I took  off  my 
glass,  and  handed  him  another;  but  the  never  a dhrop  ov 
it  he ’d  take.  No  force,”  siz  I,  “ avic;  maybee  you  think 
there ’s  poison  in  it — well,  here ’s  another  good  luck  to  us. 
An’  when  will  ye  be  able  for  the  shwim,  avic?”  siz  I, 
mighty  complisant.  I reckon  in  another  week,”  siz  he. 
So  we  shook  hands  and  parted.  The  poor  fellow  went 
home — took  the  fever — then  began  to  rave.  Shwim  up 
the  catharacts! — shwim  to  the  Keep  ov  Good  Hope! — 
shwim  to  St.  Helena ! — shwim  to  Keep  Cleer ! — shwim  with 
an  anchor  on  his  back ! — Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” 

I now  thought  it  best  to  be  on  the  move;  so  I gother  up 
my  winners ; and  here  I sit  undher  my  own  hickory  threes, 
as  independent  as  any  Yankee. 


FRANCIS  A.  FAHY. 


(1854  ) 

Francis  A.  Fahy  was  born  in  Kinvara,  County  Galway,  Sept. 
29,  1854.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  wrote  a play,  ‘ The  Last  of  the 
O’Learys,’  which  was  performed  in  his  native  town.  He  went  to 
London  as  a civil  service  clerk  in  1873,  where  he  still  lives.  He 
has  taken  an  active  part  in  various  Irish  literary  movements  in 
London,  especially  in  the  formation  of  the  Southwark  Irish  Literary 
Club  and  the  Irish  Literary  Society,  which  grew  out  of  it.  He 
wrote  many  poems  for  the  Irish  papers,  signed  Dreoilin^'  (the 
Wren),  and  in  1887  published  a collection  of  Irish  songs  and  poems 
in  Dublin. 

His  songs  are  eminently  singable  and  many  of  them  are  well- 
known  favorites  in  the  concert-hall  and  drawing-room.  They  are 
not  only  artless,  simple,  and  winning,  but  altogether  Irish  in  their 
admixture  of  humor,  sentiment,  and  pathos.  Though  in  some  re- 
spects his  name  may  well  be  bracketed  with  that  of  Mr.  A.  P.  Graves, 
he  differs  from  him  in  that  sings  of  the  inner  and 

home  life  of  the  people,  while  Mr.  Graves’  songs  are  almost  all 
pastoral  and  deal  with  out-of-door  life. 

HOW  TO  BECOME  A POET. 

Of  all  the  sayings  which  have  misled  mankind  from  the 
days  of  Adam  to  Churchill,  not  one  has  been  more  harmful 
than  the  old  Latin  one,  A poet  is  born,  not  made.’’ 

The  human  intellect,  it  is  said,  may,  by  patient  toil  and 
study,  gather  laurels  in  all  fields  of  knowledge  save  one — 
that  of  poesy.  You  may,  by  dint  of  hard  work,  become 
a captain  in  the  Salvation  Army,  a corporation  crossing- 
sweeper — ay,  even  an  unsuccessful  Chief  Secretary  for 
Ireland ; but  no  amount  of  labor  or  perseverance  will  win 
you  the  favor  of  the  Muses  unless  those  fickle-minded 
ladies  have  presided  at  your  birth,  wrapped  you,  so  to 
speak,  in  the  swadding  clothes  of  metre,  and  fashioned 
your  first  yells  according  to  the  laws  of  rhythm  and  rhyme. 

Foolish,  fatal  fallacy!  How  many  geniuses  has  it  not 
nipped  in  the  bud — how  many  vaulting  ambitions  has  it 
not  brought  to  grief,  what  treasures  of  melody  has  it  not 
shut  up  for  ever  to  mankind ! 

Hence  the  paucity  of  poetical  contributions  to  the  press, 
the  eagerness  of  publishers  to  secure  the  slightest  scrap  of 

1124 


FRANCIS  A.  FAHY. 


1125 


verse,  the  bashfulness  and  timidity  of  authors,  who  yet  in 
their  hearts  are  quite  confident  of  their  ability  to  transcend 
the  best  efforts  of  the  stars  of  ancient  or  modern  song. 

Now  the  first  thing  that  will  strike  you  in  reading  poeti- 
cal pieces  is  the  fact  that  nearh^  all  the  lines  end  in  rhymed 
words,  or  words  ending  in  similar  sounds,  such  as  “ kick, 
lick,  stick,’’  drink,  ink,  wink,”  etc. 

This  constitutes  the  real  difference  between  prose  and 
poetry.  For  instance,  the  phrase,  The  dread  monarch 
stood  on  his  head,”  is  prose,  but 

‘ ‘ The  monarch  dread 
Stood  on  his  head.” 


is  undeniable  poetry. 

Rhyme,  is,  in  fact,  the  chief  or  only  feature  in  modern 
poetry.  Get  your  endings  to  rhyme  and  you  need  trouble 
your  head  about  little  else.  A certain  amount  of  common 
sense  is  demanded  by  severe  critics;  the  general  public, 
however,  never  look  for  it,  would  be  astonished  to  find  it, 
and,  as  a matter  of  fact,  seldom  or  never  do  find  it. 

By  careful  study  of  the  best  authors  you  will  soon  dis- 
cover what  words  rhyme  with  each  other,  and  these  you 
should  diligently  record  in  a small  note-book,  procurable  at 
any  respectable  stationers’  for  the  ridiculously  small  sum 
of  one  penny. 

Few  researches  afford  keener  intellectual  pleasure  than 
the  discovery  of  rhymes,  in  such  words,  say,  as  cat,  rat, 
Pat,  scat,”  shed,  head,  said,  dead,”  and  it  is  excellent 
elementary  training  for  the  young  poet  to  combine  such 
words  into  versed  sentences,  and  even  sing  them  to  a 
popular  operatic  air. 

For  example — 

“ With  that  the  cat 
Sprang  at  the  rat, 

Whereat  poor  Pat 
Yelled  out  ‘ Iss-cat.’ 

The  roof  of  the  shed 
Fell  plop  on  his  head, 

No  more  he  said, 

But  fell  down  dead.” 

These  first  efforts  of  your  muse  are  of  high  interest,  and, 
although  it  would  not  be  advisable  to  rush  to  press  with 


1126 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


them,  they  should  be  sedulously  preserved  for  the  use  of 
future  biographers,  when  fame,  honors,  and  emoluments 
shall  liave  showered  in  upon  you. 

A little  caution  is  needed  in  the  use  of  such  rhymes  as 
fire,  higher,  Maria,^’  Hannah,  manner,  dinner,’’  “ fight, 
riot,  quiet.”  There  is  excellent  authority  for  these,  but  it 
is  well  to  recognize  that  an  absurd  prejudice  does  exist 
against  them. 

You  will  soon  make  the  profitable  discovery  that  there  is 
a host  of  words,  the  members  of  which  run,  like  beagles,  in 
couples,  the  one  invariably  suggesting  the  other,  such  as 
peeler,  squealer”;  ^Mick,  stick”;  “Ireland,  sireland”; 
“ ocean,  commotion,”  and  so  on. 

“ ’Tvvas  then  my  bold  peeler 
Made  after  the  squealer  ; 

“ He  fetched  him  a lick 
Of  a murdering  stick ; ” 

“His  shriek  spread  from  Ireland, 

My  own  beloved  sireland;  ” 

“ And  raised  a commotion 
Beyond  the  wide  ocean.” 

Were  it  not  for  such  handy  couplets  as  these,  most  of 
our  modern  bards  would  be  forced  to  earn  their  bread 
honestly. 

Of  equal  importance  is  “ apt  alliteration’s  artful  aid.” 
It  consists  in  stringing  together  a number  of  words  begin- 
ning with  the  same  letter.  A large  school  of  our  bards  owe 
their  fame  to  this  figure.  You  should  make  a free  use  of  it. 
How  effective  are  such  phrases  as  “ For  Freedom,  Faith, 
and  Fatherland  we  fight  or  fall”;  “Dear  Dirty  Dublin’s 
damp  and  dreary  dungeons  ” ; “ Softy  shone  the  setting  sun 
in  Summer  splendor  ” ; “ Blow  the  blooming  heather  ” ; 
“ Winter  winds  are  wailing  wildly.” 

Of  great  effect  at  this  stage  of  your  progress  will  be  the 
adroit  and  unstinted  employment  of  such  phrases  as  “ I 
wis,”  “ I wot,”  “ I trow,”  “ In  sooth,”  “ Methinks,”  “ Of 
yore,”  “ Erstwhile,”  “ Alack,”  a plentiful  sprinkling  of 
which,  like  currants  in  a cake,  will  impart  a quaint  poeti- 
cal flavor  to  your  verses,  making  up  for  a total  want  of 
sense  and  sentiment.  Observe  their  effect  in  the  following 
admirable  lines  from  Scott; — 


FRA^^GI^  A.  FAHY. 


1127 


“ It  were,  I ween,  a bootless  task  to  tell 
How  here,  of  yore,  in  sooth,  the  foeman  fell, 

Erstwhile  the  Paynim  sank  with  eerie  yell, 

Alack,  in  goodly  guise,  forsooth,  to ” 

Of  like  value  are  words  melodious  in  sound  or  poetical 
in  suggestion,  like  nightingale,’’  moonlight,”  rounde- 
lay,” “ trill,”  dreamy,”  and  so  on,  which,  freely  used, 
throw  a glamour  over  the  imagination  and  lull  thought,  the 
chiefest  value  of  verse  nowadays. 

‘ ‘ There  trills  the  nightingale  his  roundelay 
In  dreamy  moonlight  till  the  dawn  of  day.” 

Note  that  in  poetic  diction  you  must  by  no  means  call 
a spade  a spade.”  The  statement  of  a plain  fact  is  highly 
objectionable,  and  a roundabout  expression  has  to  be  re- 
sorted to.  For  example,  if  a girl  have  red  hair,  describe  it 
as 

“ Glowing  with  the  glory  of  the  golden  God  of  Day,” 

or,  if  Nature  has  blest  her  with  a ‘‘‘  pug-nose,”  you  should, 
like  Tennyson,  describe  it  as 

“ Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a flower.” 

For  similar  reasons  words  of  mean  significance  have  to 
be  avoided.  For  instance,  for  dead  drunk,”  use  spirit- 
uously  disguised  ” ; for  thirty  days  in  quod,”  one  moon 
in  durance  vile.”  You  may  now  be  said  to  have  mastered 
the  rudiments  of  modern  poetry,  and  your  future  course 
is  easy. 

You  may  now  choose,  although  it  is  not  at  all  essential, 
to  write  on  a subject  conveying  some  meaning  to  your 
reader’s  mind.  You  would  do  well  to  try  one  of  a familiar 
kind,  or  of  personal  or  everyday  interest,  of  which  the 
following  are  specimens : — Lines  on  beholding  a dead 
rat  in  the  street  ” ; Impromptu  on  being  asked  to  have 
a drink  ” ; Reverie  on  being  asked  to  stand  one  ” ; Epi- 
taph on  my  mother-in-law  ” ; Ode  to  my  creditors  ” ; 
^‘Morning  soliloquy  in  a police  cell”;  ‘^Acrostic  on  a 
shillelah.”  Through  pieces  of  this  character  the  soul  of 
the  writer  permeates.  Hence  their  abiding  value  and 


1128 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


permanency  on  second-hand  book-stalls.  Then  you  may 
seek  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new/^  and  weave  garlands 
in  fields  untrod  by  the  ordinary  bard.  One  of  these  is 

Spring.’’  Conceive  the  idea  of  that  season  in  your  mind. 
Winter  gone,  Summer  coming,  coughs  being  cured,  over- 
coats put  up  the  spout,  streets  dryer,  coals  cheaper,  or — if 
you  love  nature — the  strange  facts  of  the  leaves  budding, 
winds  surging,  etc.  Then  probably  the  spirit  (waterproof) 
of  poesy  will  take  possession  of  you,  and  you  will  blossom 
into  song  as  follows : — 

“ ’ T is  the  Spring  ! ’T  is  the  Spring  ! 

Little  birds  begin  to  sing. 

See  ! the  lark  is  on  the  wing, 

The  sun  shines  out  like  anything  ; 

And  the  sweet  and  tender  lamb 
Skips  besides  his  great  big  dam, 

While  the  rough  and  horny  ram 
Thinketh  single  life  a sham. 

“ Now  the  East  is  in  the  breeze. 

Now  old  maids  begin  to  sneeze. 

Now  the  leaves  are  on  the  trees. 

Now  I cannot  choose  but  sing  : 

Oh,  ’t  is  Spring  ! ’t  is  Spring  ! ’t  is  Spring  ! ” 

Verses  like  the  above  have  an  intrinsic  charm,  but 
if  you  should  think  them  too  trivial,  you  may  soar  into 
the  higher  regions  of  thought,  and  expand  your  soul  in 
epics  on,  say,  “ The  Creation,”  The  Deluge,”  The  Fall 
of  Rome,”  The  Future  of  Man.”  You  possibly  know 
nothing  whatever  of  those  subjects,  but  that  is  an  advan- 
tage, as  you  will  bring  a fresh  unhackneyed  mind  to  bear 
upon  them. 

I need  hardly  tell  you  that  there  is  one  subject  above  all 
others  whose  most  fitting  garb  is  poetry,  and  that  is — Love. 
Fall  in  love  if  you  can.  It  is  easy — nothing  easier  to 
a poet.  He  is  mostly  always  in  love,  and  with  ten  at  a 
time.  But  if  you  cannot,  or  (hapless  wretch!)  if  you  find 
it  an  entirely  one-sided  affair — very  little  free  trade,  and 
no  reciprocity — ay,  even  if  you  be  a married  man  who 
walketh  the  floor  of  nights,  and  vainly  seeketh  to  soothe 
the  seventh  olive-branch — despair  not.  To  write  of  Love, 
needeth  not  to  feel  it.  If  not  in  love,  imagine  you  are. 
Extol  in  unmeasured  terms  the  beauty  of  your  adored  one 


FRANCIS  A.  FAHY. 


1129 


— matchless,  as  the  pipe-bearing  stranger  in  the  street — 
peerless,  as  the  American  House  of  Representatives. 
Safely  call  on  mankind  to  produce  her  equal,  and  inform 
the  world  that  you  would  give  up  all  its  honors  and 
riches  (of  which  you  own  none)  for  the  sake  of  your 
Dulcinea;  but  tell  them  not  the  fact  that  you  would  not 
forego  your  nightly  pipe  and  glass  of  rum  punch  for  the 
best  woman  that  ever  breathed.  Cultivate  a melancholy 
mood.  Call  the  fair  one  all  sorts  of  names,  heartless,  cold, 
exacting — yourself,  a miserable  wight,  hurrying  hot  haste 
to  an  early  grave,  and  bid  her  come  and  shed  unavailing 
tears  there.  At  the  same  time  keep  your  strength  up,  and 
don^t  forget  your  four  meals  a day  and  a collation. 

I need  not  touch  on  the  number  of  feet  required  in  the 
various  kinds  of  verse,  as  if  a verse  lacks  a foot  anywhere 
you  are  almost  sure  to  put  yours  in  it. 

And  now  to  cast  your  lines  in  pleasant  places.’’ 

Having  fairly  mastered  the  gamut  of  poetical  composi- 
tion, you  will  be  open  to  a few  hints  as  to  the  publication 
of  your  effusions.  It  is  often  suggested  that  the  opinion  of 
a friend  should  be  consulted  at  the  outset  as  to  their  value. 
Of  course  you  may  do  so,  but,  as  friends  go  nowadays,  you 
must  be  prepared  to  ignore  his  verdict.  It  is  now  you  will 
discover  that  even  the  judgment  of  your  dearest  and  most 
intellectual  friend  is  not  alone  untrustworthy,  but  really 
below  contempt,  and  that  what  he  styles  his  candor  is 
nothing  less  than  brutality.  I have  known  the  greatest 
coolnesses  ascribable  to  this  cause,  and  the  noblest  off- 
spring of  the  muse  consigned  to  oblivion  in  weak  defer- 
ence to  a friendly  opinion.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  often 
of  great  value  to  read  aloud  your  longest  epics  to  some 
one  who  is  in  any  way  indebted  to  you  and  cannot  well 
resent  it. 

Where  the  poet’s  corners  of  so  many  papers  await  you, 
the  choice  of  a medium  to  convey  your  burning  thoughts  to 
the  world  will  be  easily  made.  You  will  scarcely  be  liable, 
I hope,  to  the  confusion  of  mind  of  a friend  of  mine  who, 
in  mistake,  sent  his  Ode  to  Death  ” to  the  editor  of  a 
comic  paper,  and  found  it  accepted  as  eminently  suitable. 

You  should  write  your  poem  carefully  on  superfine  paper 
with  as  little  blotting,  scratching,  and  bad  spelling  as  you 
can  manage. 


1130 


IRI^H  LITERATURE. 


To  smooth  the  way  to  insertion,  you  might  also  write  a 
conciliatory  note  to  the  editor,  somewhat  in  this  vein : — 

“ Respected  Sir, — It  is  with  much  diffidence  that  a young  poet  of 
seventeen  {no  mention  of  the  wife  and  five  children)  begs  to  send  you 
his  first  attempt  to  woo  the  Muses  {it  may  he  your  eighty -first,  hut  no 
matter).  Hoping  the  same  may  be  deemed  worthy  of  insertion  in  the 
widely  read  columns  of  your  admirable  journal,  with  whose  opinions 
I have  the  great  pleasure  of  being  in  thorough  accord  {you  may  have 
never  read  a line  of  it  before),  I have  the  honor  to  be,  respected  sir, 
your  obedient  humble  servant,  Homer. 

“ P.S. — If  inserted,  kindly  affix  my  full  name  as  A.  B. ; if  not,  my 
nom-de-plume,  ‘Homer.’ 

“ N.B. — If  inserted  send  me  twenty  copies  of  your  valuable  paper. 
— Homer.” 

It  will  be  vain  to  attempt  to  describe  your  feelings  from 
the  time  you  post  that  letter  until  you  know  the  result  of 
3^our  venture.  Your  reason  is  unhinged;  you  cannot  rest 
or  sleep,  l^ou  hang  about  that  newspaper  office  for  hours 
before  the  expected  edition  is  out  of  the  press.  At  last  it 
appears.  Trembling  with  eagerness  you  seize  the  coveted 
issue,  and  disregarding  the  Double  Murder  and  Suicide 
in the  Collapse  of  the  Bank  of the  Out- 

break of  War  between  France  and  Germany,’’  you  dash  to 
the  poet’s  corner  and  search  with  dazed  eyes  for  your  fate. 

You  may  have  vaguely  heard,  at  some  period  of  your  life, 
of  the  mean,  petty  jealousies  that  befoul  the  clear  current 
of  journalism,  and  frown  down  new  and  aspiring  talent, 
however  promising,  and  you  may  have  indignantly  refused 
to  believe  sucli  statements.  Alas!  now  shall  you  feel  the 
full  force  of  their  truth  in  your  own  person. 

Y^ou  look  for  your  poem  blindly,  confusedly — amazed, 
bewildered,  disgusted ! You  turn  that  paper  inside  out, 
upside  down;  you  search  in  the  Parliamentary  debates,  in 
the  Money  Market,  in  the  Births,  Deaths,  and  Marriages, 
in  the  advertisements — everywhere.  No  sign  of  it ! 

With  your  heart  in  your  boots  you  turn  to  the  Answers 
to  Correspondents,”  there  to  find  your  nom-de-plume  head- 
ing some  scurrilous  inanity  from  the  editorial  chair,  of  one 
or  other  of  the  following  patterns : — 

“ Homer — Don't  try  again  ! ” 

“Homer — Sweet  seventeen.  So  young,  so  innocent.  Hence  we 
spare  you.” 


FRA^^CI^  A,  FAHY. 


1131 


“ Homer — Have  you  no  friends  to  look  after  you  ? ” 

“ Homer — Do  you  really  expect  us  to  ruin  this  paper  ? ” 

“Homer — Send  it  to  the  Telegraph  man.  We  have  a grudge 
against  him.” 

“ Homer — The  71st  Ode  to  Spring  this  year  ! And  yet  we  live.” 

While  it  would  be  quite  natural  to  indulge  in  any  num- 
ber of  cuss  ’’  words,  your  best  plan  will  be  to  veil  your 
wrath,  and,  refraining  from  smashing  the  editorial  win- 
dows, write  the  editor  a studiously  polite  letter,  asking 
him  to  be  good  enough  to  point  out  for  your  benefit  any 
errors  or  defects  in  the  poem  submitted  to  him.  This  will 
fairly  corner  him,  and  he  will  probably  be  driven  to  dis- 
close his  meanness  in  the  next  issue : — 

“ Homer — If  you  will  engage  to  pay  for  the  working  of  this  journal 
during  the  twelve  months  it  would  take  us  to  explain  the  defects  in 
your  poem,  we  are  quite  wulling  to  undertake  the  job.” 

Insults  and  disappointments  like  these  are  the  ordinary 
lot  of  rising  genius,  and  should  only  nerve  you  to  greater 
efforts.  Perseverance  will  ultimately  wfin,  though  it  may 
not  deserve,  success. 

And  who  shall  paint  the  joy  that  will  irradiate  life  when 
you  find  yourself  in  print  for  the  first  time?  who  shall  de- 
scribe the  delirium  of  reading  your  own  verses?  a delight 
leading  you  almost  to  forgive  the  printer's  error  which 
turns  your  blessM  rule  ’’  into  blasted  fool,’’  and  your 
“ Spring  quickens  ” into  Spring  chickens  ” ; who  will 
count  the  copies  of  that  paper  you  will  send  to  all  your 
friends? 

By-and-bye  your  fame  spreads  and  you  rank  of  the  elite; 
you  assume  the  air  and  manners  of  a poet.  You  wear 
your  hair  long  (it  saves  barber’s  charges).  You  are  fond 
of  solitary  walks,  communing  with  yourself  (or  somebody 
else).  You  assume  a rapt  and  abstracted  air  in  society 
(when  asked  to  stand  a drink).  You  despise  mere  mun- 
dane matters  (debts,  engagements,  and  the  like).  Your 
eyes  have  a far-away  look  (when  you  meet  a poor  relation). 
When  people  talk  of  Tennyson,  Browning,  Swinburne,  etc., 
you  smile  pityingly,  and  say:  Ah,  yes!  Poor  Alfred  (or 

Robert  or  Algernon,  as  the  case  may  be)  ; he  means  well — 
he  means  well  ” ; and  you  ask  your  friends  if  they  have  read 
your  Spirit  Reveries,”  and  if  not,  you  immediately  pro- 


1132 


IBISH  LITERATURE. 


cluce  it  from  your  pocket,  and  read  it  (never  be  without 
copies  of  3^our  latest  pieces  for  this  purpose). 

And  now  farewell  and  God-speed.  You  are  on  the  high 
road  to  renown. 

“ Farewell,  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour, 

They  crown  you  with  laurels  and  throne  you  in  power, 

Oh,  think  of  the  friend  who  first  guided  your  way. 

And  set  you  such  rules  you  could  not  go  astray, 

And  who,  as  reward,  doth  but  one  favor  claim. 

That  you  icon't  dedicate  your  first  vol.  to  his  name.” 


THE  DONOVANS. 

If  you  would  like  to  see  the  height  of  hospitality, 

The  cream  of  kindly  welcome,  and  the  core  of  cordiality: 
Joys  of  all  the  olden  time — you’re  wishing  to  recall  again? 
Come  down  to  Donovans,  and  there  you  ’ll  meet  them  all 
again. 


Cead  mile  fdilte  ^ they  ’ll  give  you  down  at  Donovans, 

As  cheery  as  the  springtime  and  Irish  as  the  cannmvaun^ 
The  wish  of  my  heart  is,  if  ever  I had  any  one — 

That  every  luck  that  lightens  life  may  light  upon  the 
Donovans. 

As  soon  as  e’er  you  lift  the  latch,  the  little  ones  are  meeting 
you ; 

Soon  as  you  ’re  beneath  the  thatch,  oh ! kindly  looks  are  greet- 
ing you : 

Scarcely  are  you  ready  to  be  holding  out  the  fist  to  them. 

When  down  by  the  fireside  you  ’re  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Cead  mile  fdilte  they  ’ll  give  you  down  at  Donovans,  &c. 

There  sits  the  cailin  deas  ^ — oh ! where  on  earth ’s  the  peer  of 
her? 

The  modest  face,  the  gentle  grace,  the  humor  and  the  cheer  of 
her — 

Eyes  like  the  summer  skies  when  twin  stars  beam  above  in 
them, 

Oh ! proud  will  be  the  boy  that ’s  to  light  the  lamp  of  love  in 
them. 

Cead  mile  fdilte  they  ’ll  give  you  down  at  Donovans,  &c. 

1 Cead  mile  fdilte,  a hundred  thousand  welcomes. 

2 Cannawaun,  bog-cotton.  ^ Cailin  deas,  pretty  girl. 


FRANCIS  A.  FAHY. 


1133 


Then  when  you  rise  to  go,  it  Ah,  then,  now  sit  down 
again ! ’’ 

“ Isn^t  it  the  haste  you  ^re  in?  and  Won^t  you  soon  come 
round  again?” 

Your  cauheen  and  your  overcoat  you ’d  better  put  astray  from 
them, 

will  take  you  all  your  time  to  try  and  tear  yourself  away 
from  them. 

Cead  mile  fdilte  they  ’ll  give  you  down  at  Donovans,  &c. 


IRISH  MOLLY  O. 

Oh ! fairer  than  the  lily  tall,  and  sweeter  than  the  rose. 

As  modest  as  the  violet  in  dewy  dell  that  blows ; 

With  heart  as  warm  as  summer  noon,  and  pure  as  winter 
snow — 

The  pride  of  Erin’s  isle  is  she,  dear  Irish  Molly  O ! 

No  linnet  of  the  hazel  grove  than  she  more  sweetly  sang. 

No  sorrow  could  be  resting  where  her  guileless  laughter  rang. 
No  hall  of  light  could  half  so  bright  as  that  poor  cabin  glow 
Where  shone  the  face  of  love  and  grace  of  Irish  Molly  O ! 

But  fever’s  breath  struck  down  in  death  her  father  strong  and 
brave. 

And  who  should  now  his  little  ones  from  want  and  sorrow  save? 

Oh,  never  fear,  my  mother  dear,  across  the  seas  I ’ll  go, 

And  win  for  ye  a new  home  there,”  said  Irish  Molly  O ! 

And  far  away  ’mid  strangers  cold  she  toiled  for  many  a year. 
And  no  one  heard  the  heart-wrung  sigh  or  saw  the  silent  tear, 
But  letters  fond  the  seas  beyond  would  kind  and  constant  go, 
With  gold  won  dear,  and  words  of  cheer,  from  Irish  Molly  O! 

And  one  by  one  she  sent  for  all  the  loved  ones  o’er  the  foam. 
And  one  by  one  she  welcomed  them  to  her  fond  heart  and  home, 
And  last  and  best  her  arms  caressed  the  aged  head  of  snow — 
Oh,  mother,  we  ’ll  be  happy  now ! ” said  Irish  Molly  O ! 

Alas ! long  years  of  toil  and  tears  had  chilled  her  young  heart’s 
glow, 

And  grief  and  care  had  blanched  her  hair  and  stilled  her  pulse’s 
flow. 

And  when  the  spring  bade  wild  birds  sing  and  buds  in  beauty 
blow — 

They  made  your  grave  where  willows  wave,  poor  Irish  Molly  O ! 


1134 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


THE  OULD  PLAID  SHAWL. 

Not  far  from  old  Kinvara,  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  birds  were  singing  cheerily,  there  came  across  my  way. 
As  if  from  out  the  sky  above  an  angel  chanced  to  fall, 

A little  Irish  cailin  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl. 

She  tripped  along  right  joyously,  a basket  on  her  arm; 

And,  oh ! her  face,  and,  oh ! her  grace,  the  soul  of  saint  would 
charm ; 

Her  brown  hair  rippled  o’er  her  brow,  but  greatest  charm  of  all 
Was  her  modest  blue  eyes  beaming  ’neath  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 

I courteously  saluted  her — God  save  you,  miss,”  says  I ; 

God  save  you  kindly,  sir,”  said  she,  and  shyly  passed  me  by ; 
Off  went  my  heart  along  with  her,  a captive  in  her  thrall. 
Imprisoned  in  the  corner  of  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 

Enchanted  with  her  beauty  rare,  I gazed  in  pure  delight. 

Till  round  an  angle  of  the  road  she  vanished  from  my  sight; 
But  ever  since  I sighing  say,  as  I that  scene  recall, 

“ The  grace  of  God  about  you  and  your  ould  plaid  shawl.” 

I ’ve  heard  of  highway  robbers  that,  with  pistols  and  with 
knives. 

Make  trembling  travelers  yield  them  up  their  money  or  their 
lives. 

But  think  of  me  that  handed  out  my  heart  and  head  and  all 
To  a simple  little  cailin  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl  I 

Oh  ! graceful  the  mantillas  that  the  signorinas  wear. 

And  tasteful  are  the  bonnets  of  Parisian  ladies  fair. 

But  never  cloak  or  hood  or  robe,  in  palace,  bow’r,  or  hall. 

Clad  half  such  witching  beauty  as  that  ould  plaid  shawl. 

Oh ! some  men  sigh  for  riches,  and  some  men  live  for  fame. 
And  some  on  history’s  pages  hope  to  win  a glorious  name; 

My  aims  are  not  ambitious,  and  my  wishes  are  but  small — 
You  might  wrap  them  all  together  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl. 

I ’ll  seek  her  all  through  Galway,  and  I ’ll  seek  her  all  through 
Clare, 

I ’ll  search  for  tale  or  tidings  of  my  traveler  everywhere. 

For  peace  of  mind  I ’ll  never  find  until  my  own  I call 
That  little  Irish  cailin  in  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 


FRANCIS  A,  FAHY, 


1135 


LITTLE  MARY  CASSIDY. 

Oh,  is  little  Mary  Cassidy  ^s  the  cause  of  all  my  misery, 

The  raison  that  I am  not  now  the  boy  I used  to  be ; 

Oh,  she  bates  the  beauties  all  that  we  read  about  in  history, 

Sure  half  the  country  side  ^s  as  lost  for  her  as  me. 

Travel  Ireland  up  and  down,  hill,  village,  vale,  and  town, 

Girl  like  my  colleen  dhown  you  ’ll  be  looking  for  in  vain. 

Oh,  I ’d  rather  live  in  poverty  with  little  Mary  Cassidy, 

Than  Emperor  without  her  be  o’er  Germany  or  Spain. 

’T  was  at  the  dance  at  Darmody’s  that  first  I caught  a sight  of 
her, 

And  heard  her  sing  the  Drinan  Donn,  till  tears  came  in  my 
eyes, 

And  ever  since  that  blessed  hour  I ’m  dreaming  day  and  night 
of  her; 

The  divil  a wink  of  sleep  at  all  I get  from  bed  to  rise. 

Cheeks  like  the  rose  in  June,  song  like  the  lark  in  tune. 
Working,  resting,  night  or  noon,  she  never  leaves  my  mind; 

Oh,  till  singing  by  my  cabin  fire  sits  little  Mary  Cassidy, 

’T  is  little  aise  or  happiness  I ’m  sure  I ’ll  ever  find. 

What  is  wealth,  what  is  fame,  what  is  all  that  people  fight 
about. 

To  a kind  word  from  her  lips  or  a love-glance  from  her  eye  ? 

Oh,  though  troubles  throng  my  breast,  sure  they ’d  soon  go  to 
the  right-about 

If  I thought  the  curly  head  of  her  would  rest  there  by  and  by. 
Take  all  I own  to-day,  kith,  kin,  and  care  away, 

Ship  them  all  across  the  say,  or  to  the  frozen  zone ; 

Lave  me  an  orphan  bare — but  lave  me  Mary  Cassidy, 

I never  would  feel  lonely  with  the  two  of  us  alone. 


1136 


IRISH  LITERATVRE, 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES  OF  IRELAND. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Following  is  a small  selection  from  the  vast  and  rich  store  of 
Anonymous  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  which  have  been  current  for  cen- 
turies in  Ireland.  A much  larger  number  of  these  stories  is  to  be 
found  elsewhere  in  this  Library  under  the  names  of  the  authors 
who  have  written  them  down  from  traditional  story-tellers  and 
others,  and  who  have  published  collections  of  them,  from  the  time 
of  Thomas  Crofton  Croker  down  to  the  present  day. — [Ed, 


WILL  O’  THE  WISP. 

From  ‘ Hibernian  Tales,’  a Chap-book, 

In  old  times  there  was  one  Will  Cooper,  a blacksmith 
who  lived  in  the  parish  of  Loughile ; he  was  a great  lover  of 
the  bottle,  and  all  that  he  could  make  by  his  trade  went  to 
that  use,  so  that  his  family  was  often  in  a starving  condi- 
tion. One  day  as  he  was  musing  in  his  shop  alone  after  a 
fit  of  drunkenness,  there  came  to  him  a little  old  man,  al- 
most naked  and  trembling  with  cold.  My  good  fellow,” 
said  he  to  Will,  put  on  some  coals  and  make  a fire,  that  I 
may  get  myself  warmed.” 

Will,  pitying  the  poor  creature,  did  so,  and  likewise 
brought  him  something  to  eat,  and  told  him,  if  he  thought 
proper,  he  was  welcome  to  stay  all  night.  The  old  man 
thanked  him  kindly,  and  said  he  had  farther  to  go ; ‘‘  but,” 
says  he,  as  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  it  is  in  my  power 
to  make  you  a recompense;  make  three  wishes,”  says  he, 
for  anything  you  desire  most,  and  let  it  be  what  it 
will,  you  shall  obtain  it  immediately.”  Well,”  says  Will, 
since  that  is  the  case,  I wish  that  any  person  who  takes 
my  sledge  into  their  hand  may  never  get  free  of  it  till  I 
please  to  take  it  from  them.  Secondly,  I have  an  armed 
chair,  and  I wish  that  any  person  sitting  down  on  the  same 
may  never  have  power  to  rise  until  I please  to  take  them  off 
it.  I likewise  wish  for  the  last,”  says  Will,  that  what- 
ever money  or  gold  I happen  to  put  into  my  purse,  no  per- 
son may  have  power  to  take  it  out  again  but  myself.” 
Ah ! unfortunate  Will ! ” cries  the  old  man,  “ why  did  not 
you  wish  for  Heaven?  ” 


F'AIRY  and  folk  tales. 


1137 


With  that  he  went  a^vay  from  the  shop,  as  Will  thought, 
very  pensive  and  melancholy,  and  never  was  heard  of 
more.  The  old  man^s  words  opened  WilPs  eyes;  he  saw  it 
was  in  his  power  to  do  well  had  he  made  a good  use  of  the 
opportunity,  and  when  he  considered  that  the  wishes  were 
not  of  the  least  use  to  him,  he  became  worse  every  day, 
both  in  soul  and  body,  and  in  a short  time  he  was  reduced 
to  great  poverty  and  distress. 

One  idle  day  as  he  was  walking  along  through  the  fields 
he  met  the  devil  in  the  appearance  of  a gentleman,  who 
told  him  if  he  would  go  along  with  him  at  the  end  of  seven 
years,  he  should  have  anything  he  desired  during  that 
time.  Will,  thinking  that  it  was  as  bad  with  him  as  it 
could  be,  although  he  suspected  it  was  the  devil,  for  the 
love  of  rising  in  the  world,  made  bargain  to  go  with  him 
at  the  end  of  the  seven  years,  and  requested  that  he  would 
supply  him  with  plenty  of  money  for  the  present.  Accord- 
ingly, Will  had  his  desire,  and  dreading  to  be  observed  by 
his  neighbors  to  get  rich  on  a sudden,  he  removed  to  a 
distance  from  where  he  was  then  living.  However,  there 
was  nobody  in  distress  or  in  want  of  money  but  Will  was 
always  ready  to  relieve,  insomuch  that  in  a short  time  he 
became  noted,  and  went  in  that  country  by  the  name  of 
Bill  Money,  in  regard  of  the  great  sums  he  could  always 
command.  He  then  began  to  build  houses,  and  before 
the  seven  years  were  expired  he  had  built  a town,  which, 
in  imitation  of  the  name  he  then  had,  was  called  Bally- 
money,  and  is  to  this  day.  However,  to  disguise  the  busi- 
ness, and  that  nobody  might  suspect  him  having  any  deal- 
ings with  Satan,  he  still  did  something  now  and  then  at 
his  trade. 

The  seven  years  being  expired,  he  was  making  some  arti- 
cle for  a friend,  when  the  devil  came  into  the  shop  in  his 
former  appearance.  Well,  Will,^^  says  he,  “ are  you  ready 
to  go  with  me  now?  ” I am,’^  says  Will,  if  I had  the  job 
finished ; take  that  sledge,’’  says  he,  and  give  me  a blow 
or  two,  for  it  is  a friend  that  is  to  get  it,  and  then  I will 
go  with  you  where  you  please.”  The  devil  took  the  sledge, 
and  they  soon  finished  the  job.  Now,”  says  Will,  stay 
you  here  till  I run  to  my  friend  with  this,  and  I will  not 
stay  a minute.”  Will  then  went  out  and  the  devil  stopped 
in  the  shop  till  it  was  near  night,  but  there  was  no  sign 


1138 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


of  Will  coming  near  him,  nor  could  he  by  any  means  get 
the  sledge  out  of  his  hands.  He  thought  if  he  was  once 
in  his  old  abode,  perhaps  there  might  be  some  of  the  smith 
trade  in  it  who  would  disengage  him  of  the  sledge,  but  all 
that  were  in  hell  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  hands,  so  he  had 
to  retain  the  shape  he  was  then  in  as  long  as  the  iron  re- 
mained in  his  hand.  The  devil,  seeing  he  could  get  nobody 
to  do  anything  for  him,  went  in  search  of  Will  once  more, 
but  somehow  or  other  he  could  not  get  near  him  for  a 
month. 

At  length  he  met  him  coming  out  of  a tavern,  pretty 
drunk.  Well,  Will,’^  says  he,  that  was  a pretty  triek 
you  put  on  me ! ’’  “ Faith,  no,'’  says  Will,  it  was  you 

that  tricked  me,  for  when  I came  back  to  the  shop  you  were 
away,  and  stole  my  sledge  with  you,  so  that  I could  not 
get  a job  done  ever  since.”  Well,  Will,”  says  Satan,  I 
could  not  help  taking  the  sledge,  for  I cannot  get  it  out  of 
my  hand ; but  if  you  take  it  from  me  I will  give  you  seven 
years  more  before  I ask  you  with  me.”  Will  readily  took 
the  sledge,  and  the  devil  parted  from  him  well  pleased  that 
he  had  got  rid  of  it.  Will  having  now  seven  years  to  play 
upon,  roved  about  through  the  town  of  Ballymoney,  drink- 
ing and  sporting,  and  sometimes  doing  a little  at  his  trade 
to  blindfold  the  people;  yet  there  was  mauy  suspected  he 
had  dealings  with  Satan,  or  he  could  not  do  half  of  what  he 
had  done. 

At  length  the  seven  years  were  expired,  and  the  devil 
came  for  him  and  found  him  sitting  at  the  fire  smoking, 
in  his  own  house,  where  he  kept  his  wonderful  chair. 

Come,  Will,”  says  he,  are  you  ready  to  go  with  me 
now?  ” I am,”  says  Will,  if  you  sit  down  a little  till  I 
make  my  will  and  settle  everything  among  my  family,  and 
then  I will  go  with  you  wherever  you  please.”  So,  setting 
the  arm-chair  to  Satan,  he  sat  down,  and  Will  went  into 
the  chamber  as  if  to  settle  his  affairs;  after  a little  he 
came  up  again,  bidding  the  devil  come  along,  for  he  had  all 
things  completed  to  his  mind,  and  would  ask  to  stay  no 
longer.  When  Will  went  out  the  devil  made  an  attempt 
to  rise,  but  in  vain;  he  could  not  stir  from  the  chair,  nor 
even  make  the  least  motion  one  way  or  other,  so  he  was  as 
much  confounded  to  think  what  was  the  matter,  as  when  he 
was  first  cast  into  utter  darkness.  Will,  knowing  what 


FAIRY  AiYD  FOLK  TALE&. 


1139 


would  occur  to  Satan,  stayed  away  a month,  during  which 
time  he  never  became  visible  in  the  chair  to  any  of  the 
family,  nor  do  we  hear  that  any  one  else  ever  observed  him 
at  any  time  but  Will  himself.  However,  at  the  month^s 
end  Will,  returning,  pretended  to  be  very  much  surprised 
that  the  devil  did  not  follow  him.  What,^’  says  Will, 
kept  you  here  all  this  time?  I believe  you  are  making 
a fool  of  me;  but  if  you  do  not  come  immediately  I will 
have  the  bargain  broken,  and  never  go  with  you  again.’’ 
I cannot  help  it,”  says  Satan,  for  all  I can  do  I cannot 
stir  from  my  seat,  but  if  you  could  liberate  me  I will  give 
you  seven  years  more  before  I call  on  you  again.”  Well,” 
says  Will,  I will  do  what  I can.”  He  then  went  to  Satan 
and  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  with  the  greatest  ease  lifted 
him  out  of  the  chair  and  set  him  at  liberty  once  more. 

No  sooner  was  Satan  gone  than  Will  was  ready  for  his 
old  trade  again;  he  sported  and  played,  and  drank  of 
the  best,  his  purse  never  failing,  although  he  sunk  all  the 
property  and  income  he  had  in  and  about  Ballymoney  long 
before;  but  he  did  not  care,  for  he  knew  he  could  have 
recourse  to  the  purse  that  never  would  fail,  as  I told  you 
before.  However,  an  accident  happened  the  same  purse, 
that  a penny  would  never  stay  in  it  afterwards,  and  Will 
became  one  of  the  poorest  men  to  be  found.  This  was  at 
the  end  of  the  seven  years  of  his  last  bargain,  when  Satan 
came  in  quest  of  him  again,  but  was  so  fearful  of  a new 
trick  put  upon  him  by  Will  that  he  durst  not  come  near  the 
house.  At  length  he  met  him  in  the  fields,  and  would  not 
give  him  time  to  bid  as  much  as  farewell  to  his  wife  and 
children,  he  was  so  much  afraid  of  being  imposed  upon. 
Will  had  at  last  to  go,  and  traveling  along  the  road  he 
came  to  an  inn,  where  many  a good  glass  he  had  taken  in 
his  time.  Here ’s  a set  of  the  best  rogues,”  says  Will, 
in  Ireland;  they  cheated  me  many  a time,  and  I will  give 
all  I possess  could  I put  a trick  upon  them.”  . . . ^^  Well,” 
says  Satan,  I do  not  care  if  we  stop.”  But,”  says  Will, 
I have  no  money,  and  I cannot  manage  my  scheme  with- 
out it ; but  I will  tell  you  what  you  can  do — you  can  change 
yourself  into  a piece  of  gold;  I will  put  you  in  my  purse, 
and  then  you  will  see  what  a hand  I will  make  for  you  and 
me  both,  before  we  are  at  our  journey’s  end.”  Satan,  ever 
willing  to  promote  evil,  consented  to  change  himself  into 


1140 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


gold,  and  when  he  had  done  so,  Will  put  the  piece  into  his 
purse  and  returned  home. 

Satan,  understanding  that  Will  did  not  do  as  he  pre- 
tended, strove  to  deliver  himself  from  confinement,  but 
by  the  power  of  the  purse  he  could  never  change  himself 
from  gold,  as  long  as  Will  pleased  to  keep  him  in  it,  and  no 
other  person,  as  I have  told  you  before,  had  power  to  take 
anything  out  of  it  but  himself.  Will  would  go  to  drink 
from  one  ale-house  to  another,  and  would  pretend  to  be 
drunk  when  he  was  not,  where  he  would  lay  down  his  purse 
and  bid  the  waiters  take  what  they  pleased  for  the  reckon- 
ing. Every  person  saw  he  had  money  plenty,  yet  all  they 
could  do  they  could  never  get  one  penny  out  of  the  purse, 
and  he  would  get  so  drunk  when  they  would  give  it  back 
to  him  that  he  would  not  seem  to  understand  anything, 
and  so  would  sneak  away.  In  this  manner  he  cheated 
both  town  and  country  round,  until  Satan,  weary  of  con- 
finement, had  recourse  to  a stratagem  of  his  own,  and 
changed  himself  from  pieces  of  gold  into  a solid  bar  or 
ingot  of  the  same  metal,  but  could  not  get  out  of  the  purse. 

This,  however,  put  a great  damp  upon  Wilks  trade,  for 
when  he  had  no  coin  to  show  he  could  get  nothing  from 
anybody,  and  how  to  behave  he  did  not  know.  He  took  a 
notion  that  he  would  perhaps  force  him  into  coin  again, 
and  accordingly  brought  him  to  an  iron  forge,  where  he  had 
the  ingot  battered,  for  the  length  of  an  hour,,  at  a fearful 
rate;  but  all  they  could  do  they  never  changed  it  in  the 
least,  neither  could  they  injure  the  purse,  for  the  quality 
of  it  became  miraculous  after  his  wish,  and  the  people 
swore  the  devil  was  surely  in  the  purse,  for  they  never  saw 
anything  like  it.  They  were  compelled  at  last  to  give 
over,  and  Will  returned  home  and  went  to  bed,  putting  the 
purse  under  his  head.  His  wife  was  asleep,  and  the  devil 
kept  such  a hissing,  puffing,  and  blowing  under  the  bolster 
that  he  soon  awakened  her,  and  she,  almost  frightened  out 
of  her  wits,  awakened  Will,  telling  him  that  the  devil  was 
under  his  head.  Well,  if  he  be,^^  says  Will,  “ I will  take 
him  to  the  forge,  where  I assure  you  he  will  get  a sound 
battering.^’  Oh,  no,^^  says  Satan,  I would  rather  be  in 
hell  than  stay  here  confined  in  this  manner,  and  if  you 
let  me  go  I will  never  trouble  you  again.’^  “ With  all  my 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES. 


1141 


heart/^  says  Will ; on  that  head  you  shall  have  your  free- 
dom/’ and  opening  the  purse,  gave  Satan  his  liberty. 

Will  was  now  free  from  all  dread  or  fear  of  anything, 
and  cared  not  what  he  did.  But  I forgot  to  mention  that 
at  the  time  Will  wished  nobody  might  take  anything  out 
of  the  purse,  he  wished  he  might  never  put  his  hand  in  it 
himself  but  he  would  find  money — but  after  Satan  being  in 
it  he  found  it  empty  ever  after.  By  this  unlucky  accident, 
he  that  had  seen  so  much  of  the  world  for  such  a length  of 
time  was  reduced  to  the  most  indigent  state,  and  at  length 
forced  to  beg.  his  bread.  In  this  miserable  condition  he 
spent  many  years  until  his  glass  was  run,  and  he  had  to  pay 
that  debt  to  nature  which  all  creatures  have  since  the  fall 
of  Adam.  However,  his  life  was  so  ill-spent  and  his  actions 
so  bad  that  it  is  recorded  he  could  get  no  entrance  to  any 
place  of  good  after  his  decease,  so  that  he  was  destined  to 
follow  his  own  master. 

Coming  to  the  gates  of  hell,  he  made  a horrible  noise  to 
get  in ; then  Satan  bid  the  porter  ask  who  it  was  that  made 
such  a din,  and  not  to  admit  him  till  he  would  let  him 
know.  The  porter  did  so,  and  he  bade  him  tell  his  master 
that  he  was  his  old  friend.  Will  Cooper,  wanting  to  come 
to  him  once  more.  When  Satan  had  heard  who  it  was  he 
ordered  the  gates  to  be  strongly  guarded ; for  if  that 
villain  gets  in,”  says  he,  we  are  all  undone.”  Will 
pleaded  the  distress  he  was  in,  that  he  could  not  get  back- 
ward nor  forward  with  the  darkness  he  was  surrounded 
with,  and  having  lost  his  guide,  if  Satan  would  not  let  him 
in ; and  being  loath  to  listen  to  the  noise  and  confusion  he 
was  making  at  the  gate,  Satan  sent  one  of  his  servants 
to  conduct  him  back  to  earth  again,  and  particularly  not 
to  quit  him  until  he  left  him  in  Ireland. 

Now,”  says  Satan  to  Will  when  he  was  going  away, 

you  were  a trusty  servant  to  me  a long  time ; now  you 
are  going  to  earth  again,  let  me  see  you  be  busy,  and  gain 
all  to  me  that  you  can ; but  remember  how  you  served  me 
when  in  the  purse,  and  you  shall  never  be  out  of  darkness. 
I will  give  you  a light  in  your  hand  to  allure  and  deceive 
the  weary  traveler,  so  that  he  may  become  a prey  to  us.” 
So  lighting  a wisp,  he  gave  it  to  Will,  and  he  was  con- 
ducted to  earth,  where  he  wanders  from  that  day  to  this, 
under  the  title  of  Will  o’  the  Wisp. 


1142 


IRWH  LITERATURE, 


LOUGHLEAGH  (LAKE  OF  HEALING). 

From  the  ‘ Dublin  and  London  Magazine,’  1825. 

Do  you  see  that  bit  of  a lake/’  said  my  companion, 
turning  his  eyes  towards  the  acclivity  that  overhung 
Loughleagh.  Troth,  and  as  little  as  you  think  of  it,  and 
as  ugly  as  it  looks  with  its  weeds  and  its  flags,  it  is  the  most 
famous  one  in  all  Ireland.  Young  and  ould,  rich  and 
poor,  far  and  near,  have  come  to  that  lake  to  get  cured 
of  all  kinds  of  scurvy  and  sores.  The  Lord  keep  us  our 
limbs  whole  and  sound,  for  it ’s  a sorrowful  thing  not  to 
have  the  use  o’  them.  ’T  was  but  last  week  we  had  a 
great  grand  Frenchman  here;  and,  though  he  came  upon 
crutches,  faith  he  went  home  sound  as  a bell;  and  well 
he  paid  Billy  Reily  for  curing  him.” 

And,  pray,  how  did  Billy  Reily  cure  him?  ” 

Oh,  well  enough.  He  took  his  long  pole,  dipped  it 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  and  brought  up  on  the 
top  of  it  as  much  plaster  as  would  do  for  a thousand 
sores ! ” 

What  kind  of  plaster?  ” 

What  kind  of  plaster?  why,  black  plaster  to  be  sure; 
for  isn’t  the  bottom  of  the  lake  filled  with  a kind  of  black 
mud  which  cures  all  the  world?  ” 

Then  it  ought  to  be  a famous  lake  indeed.” 

Famous,  and  so  it  is,”  replied  my  companion,  but  it 
isn’t  for  its  cures  neather  that  it  is  famous;  for,  sure, 
doesn’t  all  the  world  know  there  is  a fine  beautiful  city  at 
the  bottom  of  it,  where  the  good  people  live  just  like 
Christians?  Troth,  it  is  the  truth  I tell  you;  for  Ehemus- 
a-sneidh  saw  it  all  when  he  followed  his  dun  cow  that  was 
stolen.” 

Who  stole  her?  ” 

I ’ll  tell  you  all  about  it : — Shemus  was  a poor  gossoon, 
who  lived  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  in  a cabin  with  his  ould 
mother.  They  lived  by  hook  and  by  crook,  one  way  and 
another,  in  the  best  way  they  could.  They  had  a bit  of 
ground  that  gave  ’em  the  preaty,  and  a little  dun  cow  that 
gave  ’em  the  drop  o’  milk;  and,  considering  how  times  go, 
they  weren’t  badly  off,  for  Shemus  was  a handy  gossoon 
to  boot;  and,  while  minden  the  cow,  cut  heath  and  made 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES. 


1143 


brooms,  which  his  mother  sould  on  a market-day,  and 
brought  home  the  bit  o’  tobaccy,  the  grain  of  salt,  and  other 
nic-nackenes,  which  a poor  body  can’t  well  do  widout. 
Once  upon  a time,  however,  Shemus  w’ent  farther  than 
usual  up  the  mountain,  looken  for  long  heath,  for  town’s- 
people  don’t  like  to  stoop,  and  so  like  long  handles  to  their 
brooms.  The  little  dun  cow  was  a’most  as  cunning  as  a 
Christian  sinner,  and  follov/ed  Shemus  like  a lap-dog  every- 
where he ’d  go,  so  that  she  required  little  or  no  herden. 
On  this  day  she  found  nice  picken  on  a round  spot  as  green 
as  a leek ; and,  as  poor  Shemus  was  weary,  as  a body  would 
be  on  a fine  summer’s  day,  he  lay  down  on  the  grass  to  rest 
himself,  just  as  we  ’re  resten  ourselves  on  the  cairn  here. 
Begad,  he  hadn’t  long  lain  there,  sure  enough,  when,  what 
should  he  see  but  whole  loads  of  ganconers  ^ dancing  about 
the  place.  Some  o’  them  were  hurlen,  some  kicking  a 
football,  and  others  leaping  a kick-step-and-a-lep.  They 
were  so  soople  and  so  active  that  Shemus  was  highly  de- 
lighted with  the  sport,  and  a little  tanned-skinned  chap  in 
a red  cap  pleased  him  better  than  any  o’  them,  bekase  he 
used  to  tumble  the  other  fellows  like  mushrooms.  At  one 
time  he  had  kept  the  ball  up  for  as  good  as  half-an-hour, 
when  Shemus  cried  out,  ^ Well  done,  my  hurler ! ’ The 
word  wasn’t  well  out  of  his  mouth  when  whap  went  the 
ball  on  his  eye,  and  flash  went  the  fire.  Poor  Shemus 
thought  he  was  blind,  and  roared  out,  ^ Mille  murdher ! ’ ^ 
but  the  only  thing  he  heard  was  a loud  laugh.  ^ Cross  o’ 
Christ  about  us,’  says  he  to  himself,  ^ what  is  this  for?  ’ 
and  afther  rubbing  his  eyes  they  came  to  a little,  and  he 
could  see  the  sun  and  the  sky,  and,  by-and-by,  he  could  see 
everything  but  his  cow  and  the  mischievous  ganconers. 
They  were  gone  to  their  rath  or  mote;  but  where  was  the 
little  dun  cow?  He  looked,  and  he  looked,  and  he  might 
have  looked  from  that  day  to  this,  bekase  she  wasn’t  to  be 
found,  and  good  reason  why — the  ganconers  took  her  away 
with  ’em. 

Shemus-a-sneidh,  however,  didn’t  think  so,  but  ran 
home  to  his  mother. 

“ ^ Where  is  the  cow,  Shemus?  ’ axed  the  ould  woman. 

1 Ir.  gean-canach,  love-talker,  a kind  of  fairy  appearing  in  lonesome 
valleys,  a dndeen  (tobacco  pipe)  in  his  mouth,  making  love  to  milkmaids, 
etc.  2 Mille  murdher y a thousand  murders. 


1144 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


‘ Och,  musba,  bad  luck  to  her/  said  Shemus,  ^ I donna 
where  she  is ! ’ 

^ Is  that  an  answer,  you  big  blaggard,  for  the  likes  o^ 
you  to  give  your  poor  ould  mother?  ’ said  she. 

^ Och,  musha,’  said  Shemus,  ‘ don^t  kick  up  saich  a 
holllious^  about  nothing.  The  ould  cow  is  safe  enough,  I T1 
be  bail,  some  place  or  other,  though  I could  find  her  if  I 
put  my  e}^es  upon  TippeenSy  and,  speaking  of  eyes,  faith, 
I had  very  good  luck  o’  my  side,  or  I had  naver  a one  to 
look  after  her.’ 

u i Why,  what  happened  j^our  eyes,  agrali?  ’ axed  the  ould 
woman. 

^ Oh ! didn’t  the  ganconers — the  Lord  save  us  from  all 
hurt  and  harm ! — drive  their  hurlen  ball  into  them  both ! 
and  sure  I was  stone  blind  for  an  hour.’ 

‘ And  may  be,’  said  the  mother,  ^ the  good  people  took 
our  cow  ? ’ 

^ No,  nor  the  devil  a one  of  them,’  said  Shemus,  ‘ for, 
by  the  powers,  that  same  cow  is  as  knowen  as  a lawyer, 
and  wouldn’t  be  such  a fool  as  to  go  with  the  ganconers 
while  she  could  get  such  gras^  as  I found  for  her  to-day.’  ” 

In  this  way,  continued  my  informant,  they  talked  about 
the  cow  all  that  night,  and  next  mornen  both  o’  them  set 
off  to  look  for  her.  After  searching  every  place,  high  and 
low,  Avhat  should  Shemus  see  sticking  out  of  a bog-hole  but 
something  very  like  the  horns  of  his  little  beast ! 

Oh,  mother,  mother,”  said  he,  I ’ve  found  her ! ” 

Where,  alanna?  ” axed  the  ould  woman. 

In  the  bog-hole,  mother,”  answered  Shemus. 

At  this  the  poor  ould  creathure  set  up  such  a pullallue 
that  she  brought  the  seven  parishes  about  her;  and  the 
neighbors  soon  pulled  the  cow  out  of  the  bog-hole.  You ’d 
swear  it  was  the  same,  and  yet  it  wasn’t,  as  you  shall  hear 
by-and-by. 

Shemus  and  his  mother  brought  the  dead  beast  home 
with  them;  and,  after  skinnen  her,  hung  the  meat  up  in 
the  chimney.  The  loss  of  the  drop  o’  milk  was  a sorrowful 
thing,  and  though  they  had  a good  deal  of  meat,  that 
couldn’t  last  always;  besides,  the  whole  parish  faughed^ 
upon  them  for  eating  the  flesh  of  a beast  that  died  with- 
out bleeden.  But  the  pretty  thing  Avas,  they  couldn’t  eat 

1 Bollhous,  rumpus.  ^ Faughed,  despised. 


FAIRY  A^^D  FOLK  TALEB. 


1145 


the  meat  after  all,  for  when  it  was  boiled  it  was  as  tough 
as  carrion,  and  as  black  as  a turf.  You  might  as  well 
think  of  sinking  your  teeth  in  an  oak  plank  as  into  a piece 
of  it,  and  then  you  ^d  want  to  sit  a great  piece  from  the 
wall  for  fear  of  knocking  your  head  against  it  when  pulling 
it  through  your  teeth.  At  last  and  at  long  run  they  were 
forced  to  throw  it  to  the  dogs,  but  the  dogs  wouldn^t  smell 
to  it,  and  so  it  was  thrown  into  the  ditch,  where  it  rotted. 
This  misfortune  cost  poor  Shemus  many  a salt  tear,  for  he 
was  now  obliged  to  work  twice  as  hard  as  before,  and  be 
out  cutten  heath  on  the  mountain  late  and  early.  One  day 
he  was  passing  by  this  cairn  with  a load  of  brooms  on  his 
back,  when  what  should  he  see  but  the  little  dun  cow  and 
two  red-headed  fellows  herding  her. 

That ’s  my  mother’s  cow,”  said  Shemus-a-sneidh. 

No,  it  is  not,”  said  one  of  the  chaps. 

“ But  I say  it  is,”  said  Shemus,  throwing  the  brooms  on 
the  ground,  and  seizing  the  cow  by  the  horns.  At  that  the 
red  fellows  drove  her  as  fast  as  they  could  to  this  steep 
place,  and  with  one  leap  she  bounced  over,  with  Shemus 
stuck  fast  to  her  horns.  They  made  only  one  splash  in  the 
lough,  when  the  waters  closed  over  ’em,  and  they  sunk  to 
the  bottom.  Just  as  Shemus-a-sneidh  thought  that  all  was 
over  with  him,  he  found  himself  before  a most  elegant 
palace  built  with  jewels,  and  all  manner  of  fine  stones. 
Though  his  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  splendor  of  the 
place,  faith  he  had  gomsh  ^ enough  not  to  let  go  his  holt, 
but  in  spite  of  all  they  could  do,  he  held  his  little  cow  by 
the  horns.  He  was  axed  into  the  palace,  but  wouldn’t  go. 

The  hubbub  at  last  grew  so  great  that  the  door  flew  open, 
and  out  walked  a hundred  ladies  and  gentlemen,  as  fine  as 
any  in  the  land. 

What  does  this  boy  want?”  axed  one  o’  them,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  masther. 

‘‘  I want  my  mother’s  cow,”  said  Shemus. 

That ’s  not  your  mother’s  cow,”  said  the  gentleman. 

Bethershin ! ” ^ cried  Shemus-a-sneidh ; don’t  I know 
her  as  well  as  I know  my  right  hand?  ” 

Where  did  you  lose  her?  ” axed  the  gentleman.  And 
so  Shemus  up  and  told  him  all  about  it:  how  he  was  on 

1 Oomsh,  otherwise  “gumption” — i.e.,  sense,  cuteness. 

2 B'edir  sin,  “ that  is  possible.” 

i6— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1146 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


the  mountain — how  he  saw  the  good  people  hurlen — how 
the  ball  was  knocked  in  his  eye,  and  his  cow  was  lost. 

I believe  you  are  right,”  said  the  gentleman,  pulling 
out  his  purse,  and  here  is  the  price  of  twenty  cows  for 
you.” 

No,  no,”  said  Shemus,  you  ^11  not  catch  ould  birds 
wid  chaff.  I ^11  have  my  cow  and  nothen  else.” 

You  Ye  a funny  fellow,”  said  the  gentleman ; stop 
here  and  live  in  a palace.” 

I ’d  rather  live  with  my  mother.” 

Foolish  boy ! ” said  the  gentleman ; stop  here  and 
live  in  a palace.” 

I ^d  rather  live  in  my  mother Y cabin.” 

Here  you  can  walk  through  gardens  loaded  with  fruit 
and  flowers.” 

“ I ’d  rather,”  said  Shemus,  be  cutting  heath  on  the 
mountains.” 

Here  you  can  eat  and  drink  of  the  best.” 

Since  I Ye  got  my  cow,  I can  have  milk  once  more  with 
the  praties.” 

Oh ! ” cried  the  ladies,  gathering  round  him,  sure  you 
wouldnY  take  away  the  cow  that  gives  us  milk  for  our 
tea?  ” 

Oh ! ” said  Shemus,  my  mother  wants  milk  as  bad  as 
any  one,  and  she  must  have  it;  so  there  is  no  use  in  your 
palaver — I must  have  my  cow.” 

At  this  they  all  gathered  about  him  and  offered  him 
bushels  of  gould,  but  he  wouldnY  have  anything  but  his 
cow.  Seeing  him  as  obstinate  as  a mule,  they  began  to 
thump  and  beat  him;  but  still  he  held  fast  by  the  horns, 
till  at  length  a great  blast  of  wind  blew  him  out  of  the 
place,  and  in  a moment  he  found  himself  and  the  cow 
standing  on  the  side  of  the  lake,  the  water  of  which  looked 
as  if  it  liadnY  been  disturbed  since  Adam  was  a boy — and 
that  Y a long  time  since. 

Well,  Shemus-a-sneidh  drove  home  his  cow,  and  right 
glad  his  mother  was  to  see  her;  but  the  moment  she  said 
God  bless  the  beast,”  she  sunk  down  like  the  hreesha  ^ of 
a turf  rick.  That  was  the  end  of  Shemus-a-sneidhY  dun 
cow. 

And,  sure,”  continued  my  companion,  standing  up,  it 

^ Briseadh,  breaking. 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES, 


1147 


is  now  time  for  me  to  look  after  my  brown  cow,  and  God 
send  the  ganconers  haven’t  taken  her ! ” 

Of  this  I assured  him  there  could  be  no  fear;  and  so 
iwe  parted. 


DONALD  AND  HIS  NEIGHBORS. 

From  ‘ Hibernian  Tales,’  a Chap-book. 

Hudden  and  Dudden  and  Donald  O’Nery  were  near 
neighbors  in  the  barony  of  Balinconlig,  and  plowed  with 
three  bullocks;  but  the  two  former,  envying  the  present 
prosperity  of  the  latter,  determined  to  kill  his  bullock,  to 
prevent  his  farm  being  properly  cultivated  and  labored, 
that  going  back  in  the  world  he  might  be  induced  to  sell 
his  lands,  which  they  meant  to  get  possession  of.  Poor 
Donald,  finding  his  bullock  killed,  immediately  skinned  it, 
and  throwing  the  skin  over  his  shoulder,  with  the  fieshy 
side  out,  set  off  to  the  next  town  with  it,  to  dispose  of  it  to 
the  best  of  his  advantage.  Going  along  the  road  a magpie 
flew  on  the  top  of  the  hide  and  began  picking  it,  chattering 
all  the  time.  The  bird  had  been  taught  to  speak  and  imi- 
tate the  human  voice,  and  Donald,  thinking  he  understood 
some  words  it  was  saying,  put  round  his  hand  and  caught 
hold  of  it.  Having  got  possession  of  it,  he  put  it  under  his 
great-coat,  and  so  went  on  to  the  town. 

Having  sold  the  hide,  he  went  into  an  inn  to  take  a dram, 
and  following  the  landlady  into  the  cellar,  he  gave  the 
bird  a squeeze  which  made  it  chatter  some  broken  accents 
that  surprised  her  very  much.  “ What  is  that  I hear?  ” 
said  she  to  Donald ; I think  it  is  talk,  and  yet  I do  not 
understand.”  Indeed,”  said  Donald,  it  is  a bird  I have 
that  tells  me  everything,  and  I alwa^^s  carry  it  with  me  to 
know  when  there  is  smy  danger.  Faith,”  says  he,  it 
says  you  have  far  better  liquor  than  you  are  giving  me.” 

That  is  strange,”  said  she,  going  to  another  cask  of 
better  quality,  and  asking  him  if  he  would  sell  the  bird. 
‘‘  I will,”  said  Donald,  if  I get  enough  for  it.”  I will 
fill  your  hat  with  silver  if  you  leave  it  with  me.”  Donald 
was  glad  to  hear  the  news,  and  taking  the  silver,  set  off, 
rejoicing  at  his  good  luck. 


1148 


IRISH  LITERATVRE, 


He  had  not  been  long  at  home  until  he  met  with  Hudden 
and  Dudden.  Mister/’  said  he,  you  thought  you  did  me 
a bad  turn,  but  you  could  not  have  done  me  a better,  for 
look  here  what  I have  got  for  the  hide,”  showing  them  the 
hatful  of  silver ; you  never  saw  such  a demand  for  hides 
in  your  life  as  there  is  at  present.”  Hudden  and  Dudden 
that  very  night  killed  their  bullocks,  and  set  out  the  next 
morning  to  sell  their  hides.  On  coming  to  the  place  they 
went  through  all  the  merchants,  but  could  only  get  a trifle 
for  them.  At  last  they  had  to  take  what  they  could  get, 
and  came  home  in  a great  rage,  and  vowing  revenge  on  poor 
Donald.  He  had  a pretty  good  guess  how  matters  would 
turn  out,  and  he  being  under  the  kitchen  window,  he  was 
afraid  they  would  rob  him,  or  perhaps  kill  him  when  asleep, 
and  on  that  account,  when  he  was  going  to  bed  he  left  his 
old  mother  in  his  place  and  lay  down  in  her  bed,  which  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house;  and  taking  the  old  woman 
for  Donald,  they  choked  her  in  her  bed,  but  he  making 
some  noise  they  had  to  retreat  and  leave  the  money  be- 
hind them,  which  grieved  them  very  much. 

However,  by  daybreak  Donald  got  his  mother  on  his 
back  and  carried  her  to  town.  Stopping  at  a well,  he  fixed 
his  mother  with  her  staff,  as  if  she  was  stooping  for  a 
drink,  and  then  went  into  a public-house  convenient  and 
called  for  a dram.  “ I wish,”  said  he  to  a woman  that 
stood  near  him,  you  would  tell  my  mother  to  come  in ; 
she  is  at  yon  well  trying  to  get  a drink,  and  she  is  hard  of 
hearing.  If  she  does  not  observe  you,  give  her  a little  shake 
and  tell  her  that  I want  her.”  The  woman  called  her 
several  times,  but  she  seemed  to  take  no  notice;  at  length 
she  went  to  her  and  shook  her  by  the  arm,  but  when  she 
let  her  go  again,  she  tumbled  on  her  head  into  the  well, 
and,  as  the  woman  thought,  was  drowned.  She,  in  great 
surprise  and  fear  at  the  accident,  told  Donald  what  had 
happened.  “ Oh,  mercy,”  said  he,  what  is  this?  ” He 
ran  and  pulled  her  out  of  the  well,  w^eeping  and  lamenting 
all  the  time,  and  acting  in  such  a manner  that  you  wmuld 
imagine  he  had  lost  his  senses.  The  woman,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  far  worse  than  Donald,  for  his  grief  was  only 
feigned,  but  she  imagined  herself  to  be  the  cause  of  the  old 
w^oman’s  death. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  town,  hearing  what  had  happened, 


FAIRY  AlYD  FOLK  TALES, 


1149 


agreed  to  make  Donald  up  a good  sum  for  his  loss,  as  the 
accident  happened  in  their  place;  and  Donald  brought  a 
greater  sum  home  with  him  than  he  got  for  the  magpie. 
They  buried  Donald^s  mother,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw 
Hudden  and  Dudden  he  showed  them  the  last  purse  of 
money  he  had  got.  You  thought  to  kill  me  last  night,’^ 
said  he,  but  it  was  good  for  me  it  happened  on  my  mother, 
for  I got  all  that  purse  for  her  to  make  gunpowder.^’ 

That  very  night  Hudden  and  Dudden  killed  their  moth- 
ers, and  the  next  morning  set  off  with  them  to  town. 
On  coming  to  the  town  with  their  burthen  on  their  backs, 
they  went  up  and  down  crying,  Who  will  buy  old  wives 
for  gunpowder?’’  so  that  every  one  laughed  at  them,  and 
the  boys  at  last  clodded  them  out  of  the  place.  They  then 
saw  the  cheat,  and  vowing  revenge  on  Donald,  buried  the 
old  women,  and  set  off  in  pursuit  of  him.  Coming  to  his 
house,  they  found  him  sitting  at  his  breakfast,  and  seizing 
him,  put  him  in  a sack,  and  went  down  to  drown  him  in  a 
river  at  some  distance. 

As  they  were  going  along  the  highway  they  raised  a 
hare,  which  they  saw  had  but  three  feet,  and  throwing  off 
the  sack,  ran  after  her,  thinking  by  appearance  she  would 
be  easily  taken.  In  their  absence  there  came  a drover  that 
way,  and  hearing  Donald  singing  in  the  sack,  wondered 
greatly  what  could  be  the  matter.  What  is  the  reason,” 
said  he,  that  you  are  singing,  and  you  confined?  ” Oh, 
I am  going  to  heaven,”  said  Donald,  and  in  a short  time 
I expect  to  be  free  from  trouble.”  Oh,  dear,”  said  the 
drover,  what  will  I give  you  if  you  let  me  to  your  place?  ” 
“ Indeed,  I do  not  know,”  said  he;.  it  would  take  a good 
sum.”  I have  not  much  money,”  said  the  drover,  but 
I have  twenty  head  of  fine  cattle,  which  I will  give  you  to 
exchange  places  with  me.”  Well,”  says  Donald,  I do 
not  care  if  I should ; loose  the  sack,  and  I will  come  out.” 
In  a moment  the  drover  liberated  him  and  went  into  the 
sack  himself,  and  Donald  drove  home  the  fine  heifers,  and 
left  them  in  his  pasture. 

Hudden  and  Dudden  having  caught  the  hare,  returned, 
and  getting  the  sack  on  one  of  their  backs,  carried  Donald, 
as  they  thought,  to  the  river,  and  threw  him  in,  where  he 
immediately  sank.  Tliey  then  marched  home,  intending 
to  take  immediate  possession  of  Donald’s  property;  but 


1150 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


how  great  was  their  surprise  when  they  found  him  safe  at 
home  before  them,  with  such  a fine  herd  of  cattle,  whereas 
they  knew  he  had  none  before.  Donald,’’  said  they, 
“ what  is  all  this?  We  thought  you  were  drowned,  and  yet 
you  are  here  before  us.”  Ah,”  said  he,  ‘‘  if  I had  but  help 
along  with  me  when  you  threw  me  in,  it  would  have  been 
the  best  job  ever  I met  with,  for  of  all  the  sight  of  cattle 
and  gold  that  ever  was  seen  is  there,  and  no  one  to  own 
them;  but  I was  not  able  to  manage  more  than  what  you 
see,  and  I could  show  you  the  spot  where  you  might  get 
hundreds.”  They  both  swore  they  would  be  his  friend,  and 
Donald  accordingly  led  them  to  a very  deep  part  of  the 
river,  and  lifted  up  a stone.  Now,”  said  he,  “ watch 
this,”  throwing  it  into  the  stream ; there  is  the  very  place, 
and  go  in  one  of  you  first,  and  if  you  want  help  you  have 
nothing  to  do  but  call.”  Hudden,  jumping  in  and  sinking 
to  the  bottom,  rose  up  again,  and  making  a bubbling  noise, 
as  those  do  that  are  drowning,  attempted  to  speak,  but 
could  not.  What  is  that. he  is  saying  now?  ” says  Dudden. 

Faith,”  says  Donald,  he  is  calling  for  help ; don’t  you 
hear  him?  Stand  about,”  said  he,  running  back,  ‘‘till  I 
leap  in.  I know  how  to  do  better  than  any  of  you.”  Dud- 
den, to  have  the  advantage  of  him,  jumped,  in  off  the 
bank,  and  was  drowned  along  with  Hudden.  And  this 
was  the  end  of  Hudden  and  Dudden. 


A QUEEN’S  COUNTY  WITCH. 

From  the  ‘ Dublin  University  Review,’  1839. 

It  was  about  eighty  years  ago,  in  the  month  of  May,  that 
a Roman  Catholic  clergyman,  near  Rathdowney,  in  the 
Queen’s  County,  was  awakened  at  midnight  to  attend  a 
dying  man  in  a distant  part  of  the  parish.  The  priest 
obeyed  without  a murmur,  and  having  performed  his  duty 
to  the  expiring  sinner,  saw  him  depart  this  world  before  he 
left  the  cabin.  As  it  was  yet  dark,  the  man  who  had  called 
on  the  priest  offered  to  accompany  him  home,  but  he  re- 
fused, and  set  forward  on  his  journey  alone.  The  gray 
dawn  began  to  appear  over  the  hills.  The  good  priest  was 
highly  enraptured  with  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  rode 


FAIRY  AYD  FOLK  TALES. 


1151 


on,  now  gazing  intently  at  every  surrounding  object,  and 
again  cutting  with  his  whip  at  the  bats  and  big  beautiful 
night-flies  which  flitted  ever  and  anon  from  hedge  to  hedge 
across  his  lonely  way.  Thus  engaged,  he  journeyed  on 
slowly,  until  the  nearer  approach  of  sunrise  began  to  render 
objects  completely  discernible,  when  he  dismounted  from 
his  horse,  and  slipping  his  arm  out  of  the  rein,  and  draw- 
ing forth  his  Breviary  ’’  from  his  pocket,  he  commenced 
reading  his  “ morning  office  ’’  as  he  walked  leisurely  along. 

He  had  not  proceeded  very  far,  when  he  observed  his 
horse,  a very  spirited  animal,  endeavoring  to  stop  on  the 
road,  and  gazing  intently  into  a fleld  on  one  side  of  the 
way  where  there  were  three  or  four  cows  grazing.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  pay  any  particular  attention  to  this  cir- 
cumstance, but  went  on  a little  farther,  when  the  horse 
suddenly  plunged  with  great  violence,  and  endeavored  to 
break  away  by  force.  The  priest  with  great  difficulty  suc- 
ceeded in  restraining  him,  and,  looking  at  him  more  closely, 
observed  him  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  and  sweating  pro- 
fusely. He  now  stood  calmly,  and  refused  to  move  from 
where  he  was,  nor  could  threats  or  entreaty  induce  him  to 
proceed.  The  father  was  greatly  astonished,  but  recollect- 
ing to  have  often  heard  of  horses  laboring  under  affright 
being  induced  to  go  by  blindfolding  them,  he  took  out  his 
handkerchief  and  tied  it  across  his  eyes.  He  then  mounted, 
and,  striking  him  gently,  he  went  forward  without  reluc- 
tance, but  still  sw^eating  and  trembling  violently.  They 
had  not  gone  far,  when  they  arrived  opposite  a narrow 
path  or  bridle-wmy,  flanked  at  either  side  by  a tall,  thick 
hedge,  which  led  from  the  high  road  to  the  fleld  where  the 
cows  were  grazing.  The  priest  happened  by  chance  to 
look  into  the  lane,  and  saw  a spectacle  which  made  the 
blood  curdle  in  his  veins.  It  w^as  the  legs  of  a man  from 
the  hips  downwards,  without  head  or  body,  trotting  up 
the  avenue  at  a smart  pace.  The  good  father  was  very 
much  alarmed,  but,  being  a man  of  strong  nerve,  he  re- 
solved, come  what  might,  to  stand,  and  be  further  ac- 
quainted with  this  singular  specter.  He  accordingly  stood, 
and  so  did  the  headless  apparition,  as  if  afraid  to  approach 
him. 

The  priest,  observing  this,  pulled  back  a little  from  the 
entrance  of  the  avenue,  and  the  phantom  again  resumed 


1152 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


its  progress.  It  soon  arrived  on  the  road,  and  the  priest 
now  had  sufficient  opportunity  to  view  it  minutely.  It 
wore  yellow  buckskin  breeches,  tightly  fastened  at  the 
knees  with  green  ribbon;  it  had  neither  shoes  nor  stock- 
ings on,  and  its  legs  were  covered  with  long,  red  hairs,  and 
all  full  of  wet,  blood,  and  clay,  apparently  contracted  in 
its  progress  through  the  thorny  hedges.  The  priest,  al- 
though very  much  alarmed,  felt  eager  to  examine  the  phan- 
tom, and  for  this  purpose  summoned  all  his  philosophy  to 
enable  him  to  speak  to  it.  The  ghost  was  now  a little 
ahead,  pursuing  its  march  at  its  usual  brisk  trot,  and  the 
priest  urged  on  his  horse  speedily  until  he  came  up  with 
it,  and  thus  addressed  it — 

Hilloa,  friend ! who  art  thou,  or  whither  art  thou  going 
so  early?  ’’ 

The  hideous  specter  made  no  reply,  but  uttered  a fierce 
and  superhuman  growl,  or  Umph.^^ 

A fine  morning  for  ghosts  to  wander  abroad,^^  again 
said  the  priest. 

Another  Umph  was  the  reply. 

“ Why  don’t  you  speak?  ” 

Umph.” 

You  don’t  seem  disposed  to  be  very  loquacious  this 
morning.” 

Umph,”  again. 

The  good  man  began  to  feel  irritated  at  the  obstinate 
silence  of  his  unearthly  visitor,  and  said,  with  some 
warmth — 

In  the  name  of  all  that ’s  sacred,  I command  you  to 
answer  me.  Who  art  thou,  or  where  art  thou  traveling?  ” 

Another  Umph,”  more  loud  and  more  angry  than  be- 
fore, was  the  only  reply. 

Perhaps,”  said  the  father,  taste  of  whipcord  might 
render  you  a little  more  communicative ; ” and  so  saying, 
he  struck  the  apparition  a heavy  blow  with  his  whip  on  the 
breech. 

The  phantom  uttered  a wild  and  unearthly  yell,  and  fell 
forward  on  the  road,  and  what  was  the  priest’s  astonish- 
ment when  he  perceived  the  whole  place  running  over  with 
milk.  He  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement ; the  prostrate 
phantom  still  continued  to  eject  vast  quantities  of  milk 
from  every  part ; the  priest’s  head  swam,  his  eyes  got  dizzy ; 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES. 


115a 


a stupor  came  all  over  him  for  some  minutes,  and  on  his 
recovering,  the  frightful  specter  had  vanished,  and  in  its 
stead  he  found  stretched  on  the  road,  and  half  drowned  in 
milk,  the  form  of  Sarah  Kennedy,  an  old  woman  of  the 
neighborhood,  who  had  been  long  notorious  in  that  dis- 
trict for  her  witchcraft  and  superstitious  practices,  and  it 
was  now  discovered  that  she  had,  by  infernal  aid,  assumed 
that  monstrous  shape,  and  was  employed  that  morning  in 
sucking  the  cows  of  the  village.  Had  a volcano  burst  forth 
at  his  feet,  he  could  not  be  more  astonished;  he  gazed 
awhile  in  silent  amazement — the  old  woman  groaning,  and 
writhing  convulsively. 

Sarah,’’  said  he,  at  length,  “ I have  long  admonished 
you  to  repent  of  your  evil  ways,  but  you  were  deaf  to  my 
entreaties ; and  now,  wretched  woman,  you  are  surprised  in 
the  midst  of  your  crimes.” 

Oh,  father,  father,”  shouted  the  unfortunate  woman, 
can  you  do  nothing  to  save  me?  I am  lost;  hell  is  open 
for  me,  and  legions  of  devils  surround  me  this  moment, 
waiting  to  carry  my  soul  to  perdition.” 

The  priest  had  not  power  to  reply ; the  old  wretch’s  pains 
increased;  her  body  swelled  to  an  immense  size;  her  eyes 
flashed  as  if  on  fire,  her  face  was  black  as  night,  her  entire 
form  writhed  in  a thousand  different  contortions ; her  out- 
cries were  appalling,  her  face  sunk,  her  eyes  closed,  and  in 
a few  minutes  she  expired  in  the  most  exquisite  tortures. 

The  priest  departed  homewards,  and  called  at  the  next 
cabin  to  give  notice  of  the  strange  circumstances.  The 
remains  of  Sarah  Kennedy  were  removed  to  her  cabin, 
situate  at  the  edge  of  a small  wood  at  a little  distance. 
She  had  long  been  a resident  in  that  neighborhood,  but 
still  she  was  a stranger,  and  came  there  no  one  knew  from 
whence.  She  had  no  relation  in  that  country  but  one 
daughter,  now  advanced  in  years,  who  resided  with  her. 
She  kept  one  cow,  but  sold  more  butter,  it  was  said,  than 
any  farmer  in  the  parish,  and  it  was  generally  suspected 
that  she  acquired  it  by  devilish  agency,  as  she  never  made 
a secret  of  being  intimately  acquainted  with  sorcery  and 
fairyism.  She  professed  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  but 
never  complied  with  the  practices  enjoined  by  that  church, 
and  her  remains  were  denied  Christian  sepulture,  and  were 
buried  in  a sand-pit  near  her  own  cabin. 


1154 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


On  the  evening  of  her  burial,  the  villagers  assembled  and 
burned  her  cabin  to  the  earth.  Her  daughter  made  her 
escape,  and  never  after  returned. 


THE  FAIRY  GREYHOUND. 

Paddy  M’Dermid  was  one  of  the  most  rollicking  boys  in 
the  whole  county  of  Kildare.  Fair  or  pattern  ^ wouldnT 
be  held  barring  he  was  in  the  midst  of  it.  He  was  in  every 
place,  like  bad  luck,  and  .his  poor  little  farm  was  seldom 
sowed  in  season ; and  where  he  expected  barley,  there  grew 
nothing  but  weeds.  Money  became  scarce  in  poor  Paddy^s 
pocket ; and  the  cow  went  after  the  pig,  until  nearly  all  he 
had  was  gone.  Lucky  however  for  him,  if  he  had  gomch 
(sense)  enough  to  mind  it,  he  had  a most  beautiful  dream 
one  night  as  he  lay  tossicated  (drunk)  in  the  Rath^  of 
Monogue,  because  he  wasn^t  able  to  come  home.  He  dreamt 
that,  under  the  place  where  he  lay,  a pot  of  money  was 
buried  since  long  before  the  memory  of  man.  Paddy  kept 
the  dream  to  himself  until  the  next  night,  when,  taking  a 
spade  and  pickaxe,  with  a bottle  of  holy  water,  he  went 
to  the  Rath,  and,  having  made  a circle  round  the  place, 
commenced  diggin^  sure  enough,  for  the  bare  life  and  sowl 
of  him,  thinkin^  that  he  was  made  for  ever  and  ever.  He 
had  sunk  about  twice  the  depth  of  his  knees,  when  whack 
the  pickaxe  struck  against  a flag,  and  at  the  same  time 
Paddy  heard  something  breathe  quite  near  him.  He  looked 
up,  and  just  foment  him  there  sat  on  his  haunches  a 
comely  looking  greyhound. 

“ God  save  you,”  said  Paddy,  every  hair  in  his  head 
standing  up  as  straight  as  a sally  twig. 

Save  you  kindly,”  answered  the  greyhound — ^leaving 
out  God,  the  beast,  bekase  he  was  the  divil.  Christ  defend 
us  from  ever  seeing  the  likes  o’  him. 

Musha,  Paddy  M’Dermid,”  said  he,  what  would  you 
be  looking  after  in  that  grave  of  a hole  you  Ye  diggin’ 
there?  ” 

1 Pattern,  a merry-making  in  the  honor  of  some  patron  saint. 

2 Paths,  little  fields  enclosed  by  circular  ditches.  They  are  thought 
to  have  been  the  sheep-folds  and  dwellings  of  an  ancient  people. 


FAIRY  AlYD  FOLK  TALES. 


1155 


Faith,  nothing  at  all,  at  all,’’  answered  Paddy ; bekase 
you  see  he  didn’t  like  the  stranger. 

“ Arrah,  be  easy  now,  Paddy  M’Dermid,”  said  the  grey- 
hound ; don’t  I know  very  well  what  you  are  looking 
for?  ” 

Why  then  in  truth,  if  you  do,  I may  as  well  tell  you 
at  wonst,  particularly  as  you  seem  a civil-looking  gentle- 
man, that ’s  not  above  speaking  to  a poor  gossoon  like  my- 
self.” (Paddy  wanted  to  butter  him  up  a bit.) 

Well  then,”  said  the  greyhound,  come  out  here  and  sit 
down  on  this  bank,”  and  Paddy,  like  a gomulagh  (fool), 
did  as  he  was  desired,  but  had  hardly  put  his  brogue  out- 
side of  the  circle  made  by  the  holy  water,  when  the  beast 
of  a hound  set  upon  him,  and  drove  him  out  of  the  Rath; 
for  Paddy  was  frightened,  as  well  he  might,  at  the  fire  that 
fiamed  from  his  mouth.  But  next  night  he  returned,  full 
sure  the  money  was  there.  As  before,  he  made  a circle, 
and  touched  the  flag,  when  my  gentleman,  the  greyhound, 
appeared  in  the  ould  place. 

Oh  ho,”  said  Paddy,  ^^you  are  there,  are  you?  but  it 
will  be  a long  day,  I promise  you,  before  you  trick  me 
again ; ” and  he  made  another  stroke  at  the  flag. 

Well,  Paddy  M’Dermid,”  said  the  hound,  since  you 
will  have  money,  you  must;  but  say,  how  much  will  satisfy 
you?  ” 

Paddy  scratched  his  coulaan,^  and  after  a while  said — 

How  much  will  your  honor  give  me?  ” for  he  thought  it' 
better  to  be  civil. 

“ Just  as  much  as  you  consider  reasonable,  Paddy  M’Der- 
mid.” 

“ Egad,”  says  Paddy  to  himself,  there ’s  nothing  like 
axin’  enough.” 

Say  fifty  thousand  pounds,”  said  he.  (He  might  as 
well  have  said  a hundred  thousand,  for  I ’ll  be  bail  the 
beast  had  money  gulloure.) 

You  shall  have  it,”  said  the  hound ; and  then,  after 
trotting  away  a little  bit,  he  came  back  with  a crock  full 
of  guineas  between  his  paws. 

Come  here  and  reckon  them,”  said  he ; but  Paddy  was 
up  to  him,  and  refused  to  stir,  so  the  crock  was  shoved 
alongside  the  blessed  and  holy  circle,  and  Paddy  pulled  it 
* Coulaan^  head  of  hair,  wig. 


1156 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


in,  right  glad  to  have  it  in  his  clutches,  and  never  stood 
still  until  he  reached  his  own  home,  where  his  guineas 
turned  into  little  bones,  and  his  ould  mother  laughed  at 
him.  Paddy  now  swore  vengeance  against  the  deceitful 
beast  of  a greyhound,  and  went  next  night  to  the  Rath 
again,  where,  as  before,  he  met  Mr.  Hound. 

So  you  are  here  again,  Paddy?  ’’  said  he. 

Yes,  you  big  blaggard,^^  said  Paddy,  and  I ’ll  never 
leave  this  place  until  I pull  out  the  pot  of  money  that ’s 
buried  here.” 

Oh,  you  won’t,”  said  he.  Well,  Paddy  M’Dermid, 
since  I see  you  are  such  a brave  venturesome  fellow  I ’ll  be 
after  making  you  up  if  you  walk  downstairs  with  me  out  of 
the  could  ” ; and  sure  enough  it  was  snowing  like  murder. 

Oh  may  I never  see  Athy  if  I do,”  returned  Paddy,  for 
you  only  want  to  be  loading  me  with  ould  bones,  or  per- 
haps breaking  my  own,  which  would  be  just  as  bad.” 

“ ’Pon  honor,”  said  the  hound,  I am  your  friend ; and 
so  don’t  stand  in  your  own  light;  come  with  me  and  your 
fortune  is  made.  Remain  where  you  are  and  you  ’ll  die  a 
beggar-man.”  So  bedad,  with  one  palaver  and  another, 
Paddy  consented ; and  in  the  middle  of  the  Rath  opened  up 
a beautiful  staircase,  down  which  they  walked;  and  after 
winding  and  turning  they  came  to  a house  much  finer  than 
the  Duke  of  Leinster’s,  in  which  all  the  tables  and  chairs 
were  solid  gold.  Paddy  was  delighted;  and  after  sitting 
down,  a fine  lady  handed  him  a glass  of  something  to 
drink;  but  he  had  hardly  swallowed  a spoonful  when  all 
around  set  up  a horrid  yell,  and  those  who  before  appeared 
beautiful  now  looked  like  what  they  were — enraged  good 
people”  (fairies). 

Before  Paddy  could  bless  himself,  they  seized  him,  legs 
and  arms,  carried  him  out  to  a great  high  hill  that  stood 
like  a wall  over  a river,  and  fiung  him  down.  Murder ! ” 
cried  Paddy;  but  it  was  no  use,  no  use;  he  fell  upon  a 
rock,  and  lay  there  as  dead  until  next  morning,  where  some 
people  found  him  in  the  trench  that  surrounds  the  mote  of 
Coulhall,  the  good  people”  having  carried  him  there; 
and  from  that  hour  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  was  the 
greatest  object  in  the  world.  He  walked  double,  and  had 
his  mouth  (God  bless  us!)  where  his  ear  should  be. 


FAIRY  AlID  FOLK  TALES. 


1157 


THE  COUNTESS  KATHLEEN  O^SHEA. 

From  a London-Irish  newspaper. 

A very  long  time  ago,  there  suddenly  appeared  in  old 
Ireland  two  unknown  merchants  of  whom  nobody  had  ever 
heard,  and  who  nevertheless  spoke  the  language  of  the 
country  with  the  greatest  perfection.  Their  locks  were 
black,  and  bound  round  with  gold,  and  their  garments  were 
of  rare  magnificence. 

Both  seemed  of  like  age ; they  appeared  to  be  men  of  fifty, 
for  their  foreheads  were  wrinkled  and  their  beards  tinged 
with  gray. 

In  the  hostelry  where  the  pompous  traders  alighted  it 
was  sought  to  penetrate  their  designs;  but  in  vain — they 
led  a silent  and  retired  life.  And  whilst  they  stopped 
there,  they  did  nothing  but  count  over  and  over  again  out 
of  their  money-bags  pieces  of  gold,  whose  yellow  brightness 
could  be  seen  through  the  windows  of  their  lodging. 

Gentlemen,^’  said  the  landlady  one  day,  how^  is  it  that 
you  are  so  rich,  and  that,  being  able  to  succor  the  public 
misery,  you  do  no  good  works? 

Fair  hostess,^’  replied  one  of  them,  we  didn^t  like  to 
present  alms  to  the  honest  poor,  in  dread  we  might  be  de- 
ceived by  make-believe  paupers.  Let  want  knock  at  our 
door,  we  shall  open  it.’^ 

The  following  day,  when  the  rumor  spread  that  two  rich 
strangers  had  come,  ready  to  lavish  their  gold,  a crowd  be- 
sieged their  dwelling;  but  the  figures  of  those  who  came 
out  were  widely  different.  Some  carried  pride  in  their 
mien ; others  were  shame-faced. 

The  two  chapmen  traded  in  souls  for  the  demon.  The 
soul  of  the  aged  was  worth  twenty  pieces  of  gold,  not  a 
penny  more ; for  Satan  had  had  time  to  make  his  valuation. 
The  soul  of  a matron  was  valued  at  fifty,  when  she  was 
handsome,  and  a hundred  when  she  was  ugly.  The  soul  of 
a young  maiden  fetched  an  extravagant  sum ; the  freshest 
and  purest  flowers  are  the  dearest. 

At  that  time  there  lived  in  the  city  an  angel  of  beauty, 
the  Countess  Kathleen  O’Shea.  She  was  the  idol  of  the 
people  and  the  providence  of  the  indigent.  As  soon  as 
she  learned  that  these  miscreants  profited  by  the  public 


1158 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


misery  to  steal  away  hearts  from  God,  she  called  to  her 
butler. 

Patrick,^’  said  she  to  him,  how  many  pieces  of  gold  in 
my  coffers?  ’’ 

A hundred  thousand.” 

How  many  jewels?  ” 

The  money’s  worth  of  the  gold.” 

How  much  property  in  castles,  forests,  and  lands?  ” 
Double  the  rest.” 

Very  well,  Patrick ; sell  all  that  is  not  gold ; and  bring 
me  the  account.  I only  wish  to  keep  this  mansion  and  the 
demesne  that  surrounds  it.” 

Two  days  afterwards  the  orders  of  the  pious  Kathleen 
were  executed,  and  the  treasure  was  distributed  to  the  poor 
in  proportion  to  their  wants.  This,  says  the  tradition,  did 
not  suit  the  purposes  of  the  Evil  Spirit,  who  found  no  more 
souls  to  purchase.  Aided  by  an  infamous  servant,  they 
penetrated  into  the  retreat  of  the  noble  dame,  and  pur- 
loined from  her  the  rest  of  her  treasure.  In  vain  she  strug- 
gled with  all  her  strength  to  save  the  contents  of  her  cof- 
fers ; the  diabolical  thieves  were  the  stronger.  If  Kathleen 
had  been  able  to  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  adds  the 
legend,  she  would  have  put  them  to  flight,  but  her  hands 
were  captive.  The  larceny  was  effected. 

Then  the  poor  called  for  aid  to  the  plundered  Kathleen, 
alas,  to  no  good:  she  was  able  to  succor  their  misery  no 
longer ; she  had  to  abandon  them  to  the  temptation. 

Meanwhile,  but  eight  days  had  to  pass  before  the  grain 
and  provender  would  arrive  in  abundance  from  the  western 
lands.  Eight  such  days  were  an  age.  Eight  days  required 
an  immense  sum  to  relieve  the  exigencies  of  the  dearth,  and 
the  poor  should  either  perish  in  the  agonies  of  hunger,  or, 
denying  the  holy  maxims  of  the  Gospel,  vend,  for  base 
lucre,  their  souls,  the  richest  gift  from  the  bounteous  hand 
of  the  Almighty.  And  Kathleen  hadn’t  anything,  for  she 
had  given  up  her  mansion  to  the  unhappy.  She  passed 
twelve  hours  in  tears  and  mourning,  rending  her  sun-tinted 
hair,  and  bruising  her  breast,  of  the  whiteness  of  the  lily; 
afterwards  she  stood  up,  resolute,  animated  by  a vivid  sen- 
timent of  despair. 

She  went  to  the  traders  in  souls. 

What  do  you  want?  ” they  said. 

You  buy  souls?  ” 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALE^. 


1169 


Yes,  a few  still,  in  spite  of  you.  Isn’t  that  so,  saint, 
with  the  eyes  of  sapphire?  ” 

To-day  I am  come  to  offer  you  a bargain,”  replied  she. 
What?  ” 

I have  a soul  to  sell,  but  it  is  costly.” 

“ What  does  that  signify  if  it  is  precious?  The  soul,  like 
the  diamond,  is  appraised  by  its  transparency.” 

It  is  mine.” 

The  two  emissaries  of  Satan  started.  Their  claws  were 
clutched  under  their  gloves  of  leather;  their  gray  eyes 
sparkled;  the  soul,  pure,  spotless,  virginal  of  Kathleen — it 
was  a priceless  acquisition  ! 

Beauteous  lady,  how  much  do  you  ask?  ” 

“ A hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pieces  of  gold.” 

It ’s  at  your  service,”  replied  the  traders,  and  they 
tendered  Kathleen  a parchment  sealed  with  black,  which 
she  signed  with  a shudder. 

The  sum  was  counted  out  to  her. 

As  soon  as  she  got  home  she  said  to  the  butler,  Here^ 
distribute  this:  with  this  money  that  I give  you  the  poor 
can  tide  over  the  eight  days  that  remain,  and  not  one  ot 
their  souls  will  be  delivered  to  the  demon.” 

Afterwards  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  and  gave 
orders  that  none  should  disturb  her. 

Three  days  passed ; she  called  nobody,  she  did  not  come 
out. 

When  the  door  was  opened,  they  found  her  cold  and 
stiff ; she  was  dead  of  grief. 

But  the  sale  of  this  soul,  so  adorable  in  its  charity,  was 
declared  null  by  the  Lord;  for  she  had  saved  her  fellow- 
citizens  from  eternal  death. 

After  the  eight  days  had  passed,  numerous  vessels 
brought  into  famished  Ireland  immense  provisions  in 
grain.  Hunger  was  no  longer  possible.  As  to  the  traders, 
they  disappeared  from  their  hotel  without  any  one  knowing 
what  became  of  them.  But  the  fishermen  of  the  Black- 
water  pretend  that  they  are  enchained  in  a subterranean 
prison  by  order  of  Lucifer,  until  they  shall  be  able  to  ren- 
der up  the  soul  of  Kathleen,  which  escaped  from  them. 


1160  - 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


EENT-DAY. 

“ Oh,  ullagone ! ullagone ! this  is  a wide  world,  but  what 
will  we  do  in  it,  or  where  will  we  go?  ’’  muttered  Bill 
Doody,  as  he  sat  on  a rock  by  the  Lake  of  Killarney. 
“What  will  we  do?  To-morrow  ^s  rent-day,  and  Tim  the 
Driver  swears  if  we  don’t  pay  our  rent,  he  ’ll  cant  every 
Jia^pertli  we  have;  and  then,  sure  enough,  there ’s  Judy  and 
myself,  and  the  poor  graicJs^  will  be  turned  out  to  starve 
on  the  high-road,  for  the  never  a halfpenny  of  rent  have  I ! 
— Oh  hone,  that  ever  I should  live  to  see  this  day ! ” 

Thus  did  Bill  Doody  bemoan  his  hard  fate,  pouring  his 
sorrows  to  the  reckless  waves  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
lakes,  which  seemed  to  mock  his  misery  as  they  rejoiced 
beneath  the  cloudless  sky  of  a May  morning.  That  lake, 
glittering  in  sunshine,  sprinkled  with  fairy  isles  of  rock 
and  verdure,  and  bounded  by  giant  hills  of  ever-varying 
hues,  might,  with  its  magic  beauty,  charm  all  sadness  but 
despair;  for  alas, 

‘ ‘ How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest  agree ! ” 

Yet  Bill  Doody  wms  not  so  desolate  as  he  supposed ; there 
was  one  listening  to  him  he  little  thought  of,  and  help  was 
at  hand  from  a quarter  he  could  not  have  expected. 

“What’s  the  matter  with  you,  my  poor  man?”  said  a 
tall,  portly-looking  gentleman,  at  the  same  time  stepping 
out  of  a furze-brake.  Now  Bill  was  seated  on  a rock  that 
commanded  the  view  of  a large  field.  Nothing  in  the  field 
could  be  concealed  from  him,  except  this  furze-brake,  which 
grew  in  a hollow  near  the  margin  of  the  lake.  He  was, 
therefore,  not  a little  surprised  at  the  gentleman’s  sudden 
appearance,  and  began  to  question  whether  the  personage 
before  him  belonged  to  this  world  or  not.  He,  however, 
soon  mustered  courage  sufficient  to  tell  him  how  his  crops 
had  failed,  how  some  bad  member  had  charmed  away  his 
butter,  and  how  Tim  the  Driver  threatened  to  turn  him  out 
of  the  farm  if  he  didn’t  pay  up  every  penny  of  the  rent  by 
twelve  o’clock  next  day. 

“ A sad  story,  indeed,”  said  the  stranger;  “ but  surely,  if 

1 Grawls,  children. 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES, 


1161 


you  represented  the  case  to  your  landlord's  agent,  he  won’t 
have  the  heart  to  turn  you  out.” 

Heart,  your  honor ; where  would  an  agent  get  a heart ! ” 
exclaimed  Bill.  I see  your  honor  does  not  know  him ; 
besides,  he  has  an  eye  on  the  farm  this  long  time  for  a 
fosterer  of  his  own ; so  I expect  no  mercy  at  all  at  all,  only 
to  be  turned  out.” 

Take  this,  my  poor  fellow,  take  this,”  said  the  stranger, 
pouring  a purse  full  of  gold  into  Bill’s  old  hat,  which  in 
his  grief  he  had  flung  on  the  ground.  Pay  the  fellow 
your  rent,  but  I ’ll  take  care  it  shall  do  him  no  good.  I 
remember  the  time  when  things  went  otherwise  in  this 
country,  when  I would  have  hung  up  such  a fellow  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye ! ” 

These  words  were  lost  upon  Bill,  who  was  insensible  to 
everything  but  the  sight  of  the  gold,  and  before  he  could 
unfix  his  gaze,  and  lift  up  his  head  to  pour  out  his  hundred 
thousand  blessings,  the  stranger  was  gone.  The  bewildered 
peasant  looked  around  in  search  of  his  benefactor,  and  at 
last  he  thought  he  saw  him  riding  on  a white  horse  a long 
way  off  on  the  lake. 

O’Donoghue,  O’Donoghue ! ” shouted  Bill ; the  good, 
the  blessed  O’Donoghue ! ” and  he  ran  capering  like  a 
madman  to  show  Judy  the  gold,  and  to  rejoice  her  heart 
with  the  prospect  of  wealth  and  happiness. 

The  next  day  Bill  proceeded  to  the  agent’s;  not  sneak- 
ingly,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
and  his  knees  bending  under  him;  but  bold  and  upright, 
like  a man  conscious  of  his  independence. 

Why  don’t  you  take  off  your  hat,  fellow?  don’t  you 
know  you  are  speaking  to  a magistrate?  ” said  the  agent. 

I know  I ’m  not  speaking  to  the  king,  sir,”  said  Bill ; 
and  I never  takes  off  my  hat  but  to  them  I can  respect 
and  love.  The  Eye  that  sees  all  knows  I ’ve  no  right  either 
to  respect  or  love  an  agent ! ” 

You  scoundrel ! ” retorted  the  man  in  office,  biting  his 
lips  with  rage  at  such  an  unusual  and  unexpected  opposi- 
tion, I ’ll  teach  you  how  to  be  insolent  again ; I have  the 
power,  remember.” 

“ To  the  cost  of  the  country,  I know  you  have,”  said  Bill, 
who  still  remained  with  his  head  as  firmly  covered  as  if  he 
was  thf^  Lord  Kingsale  himself. 


1162 


IRI^H  LITERATURE. 


But,  come,’’  said  the  magistrate;  “have  you  got  the 
money  for  me?  this  is  rent-day.  If  there ’s  one  penny  of  it 
Avanting,  or  the  running  gale  that ’s  due,  prepare  to  turn 
out  before  night,  for  you  shall  not  remain  another  hour  in 
possession.” 

“ There  is  your  rent,”  said  Bill,  with  an  unmoved  ex- 
pression of  tone  and  countenance;  “you’d  better  count 
it,  and  give  me  a receipt  in  full  for  the  running  gale  and 
all.” 

The  agent  gave  a look  of  amazement  at  the  gold;  for  it 
, was  gold — real  guineas ! and  not  bits  of  dirty  ragged  small 
notes,  that  are  only  fit  to  light  one’s  pipe  with.  However 
willing  the  agent  may  have  been  to  ruin,  as  he  thought,  the 
unfortunate  tenant,  he  took  up  the  gold,  and  handed  the 
receipt  to  Bill,  who  strutted  off  with  it  as  proud  as  a cat  of 
her  whiskers. 

The  agent,  going  to  his  desk  shortly  after,  was  con- 
founded at  beholding  a heap  of  gingerbread  cakes  instead 
of  the  money  he  had  deposited  there.  He  raved  and  swore, 
but  all  to  no  purpose;  the  gold  had  become  gingerbread 
rakes,  just  marked  like  the  guineas,  with  the  king’s  head; 
and  Bill  had  the  receipt  in  his  pocket ; so  he  saw  there  was 
no  use  in  saying  anything  about  the  affair,  as  he  would 
only  get  laughed  at  for  his  pains. 

From  that  hour  Bill  Doody  grew  rich;  all  his  under- 
takings prospered;  and  he  often  blesses  the  day  that  he  met 
with  O’Donoghue,  the  great  prince  that  lives  down  under 
the  lake  of  Killarney. 


CONVERSION  OF  KING  LAOGHAIRE’S 
DAUGHTERS. 

Once  when  Patrick  and  his  clericks  were  sitting  beside  a 
well  in  the  Rath  of  Croghan,  with  books  open  on  their 
knees,  they  saw  coming  towards  them  the  two  young 
daughters  of  the  King  of  Connaught.  ’T  was  early  morn- 
ing, and  they  were  going  to  the  well  to  bathe. 

The  young  girls  said  to  Patrick,  “ Whence  are  ye,  and 
whence  come  }^e?  ” and  Patrick  answered,  “ It  were  better 
for  you  to  confess  to  the  true  God  than  to  inquire  concern- 
ing our  race.” 


FAIRY  AND  FOLK  TALES. 


1163 


Who  is  God?  ’’  said  the  young  girls,  and  where  is 
God,  and  of  what  nature  is  God,  and  where  is  His  dwelling- 
place?  Has  your  God  sons  and  daughters,  gold  and  silver? 
Is  he  everlasting?  Is  he  beautiful?  Did  Mary  foster  her 
son?  Are  His  daughters  dear  and  beauteous  to  men  of 
the  world?  Is  He  in  heaven,  or  on  earth,  in  the  sea,  in 
rivers,  in  mountainous  places,  in  valleys?  ’’ 

Patrick  answered  them,  and  made  known  who  God  was, 
and  they  believed  and  were  baptized,  and  a white  garment 
put  upon  their  heads ; and  Patrick  asked  them  would  they 
live  on,  or  would  they  die  and  behold  the  face  of  Christ? 
They  chose  death,  and  died  immediately,  and  were  buried 
near  the  well  Clebach. 


GEORGE  FARQUHAR. 
(1678—1707.) 


George  Farquhar,  the  actor-author,  was  born  in  Londonderry  in 
1678,  and  there  he  received  the  rudiments  of  education.  In  1694  he 
entered  at  Trinity  College  in  Dublin,  but  was  not  graduated.  He 
became  intimate  with  the  actor  Wilks,  and  went  on  the  stage  in 
1695.  His  appearance  was  successful,  and  he  would  doubtless  have 
remained  an  actor  all  his  life,  but  he  accidentally  wounded  a brother 
actor  in  a fencing-scene.  He  then  left  the  stage  and  secured  a com- 
mission in  the  army  through  the  Earl  of  Orrery. 

He  afterward  went  to  London,  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
Wilks,  and  wrote  his  first  comedy,  ‘Love  and  a Bottle.’  This  ap- 
peared in  1698  and  was  well  received.  In  1700,  the  year  of  jubilee 
at  Rome,  he  produced  his  ‘ Constant  Couple;  or.  Trip  to  the  Jubi- 
lee,’ in  which  Wilks  made  a great  hit  as  Sir  Harry  Wildair. 

In  1702  he  published  his  ‘ Miscellanies ; or.  Collections  of  Poems, 
Letters,  and  Essays,’  in  which  may  be  found  many  humorous  and 
pleasant  sallies  of  fancy;  and  in  1703  he  produced  ‘ The  Inconstant,’ 
a play  which  has  ever  since  kept  the  stage. 

‘ The  Stage  Coach,’  a farce,  was  produced  in  1704  and  was  well 
received.  In  1705  his  comedy  ‘ The  Twin  Rivals’  appeared,  and 
in  1706  the  comedy  called  ‘The  Recruiting  Officer.’  His  last  and 
perhaps  his  best  known  work  was  ‘The  Beaux’  Stratagem,’  which 
he  did  not  live  to  see  produced.  Financial  troubles  broke  him  down 
completely,  and  in  April,  1707,  while  ‘ The  Beaux’  Stratagem  ’ was 
being  rehearsed  at  Drury  Lane,  he  sank  into  his  last  sleep. 

After  his  death  the  following  letter  to  Wilks  was  found  among 
his  papers  : “ Dear  Bob,  I have  not  anything  to  leave  thee  to  perpet- 
uate my  memory  but  two  helpless  girls ; look  upon  them  sometimes, 
and  think  of  him  that  was  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life,  thine, 
George  Farquhar.” 

Farquhar  has  been  called  “one  in  the  shining  list  of  geniuses 
that  adorn  the  biographical  page  of  Ireland,  his  style  is  pure  and 
unaffected,  his  wit  natural  and  flowing,  his  plots  generally  well  con- 
trived.” His  works  were  so  successful  in  book  form,  as  well  as  on 
the  stage,  that  within  fifty  years  of  his  death  they  had  gone  through 
more  than  eight  editions.  “ Farquhar’s  gentlemen  are  Irish  gentle- 
men,” says  Cowden  Clarke,  “frank,  generous,  eloquent,  witty,  and 
with  a cordial  word  of  gallantry  always  at  command.”  Hazlitt  liad 
a high  opinion  of  Farquhar,  who,  he  says,  “has  humor,  character, 
and  invention.  . . . His  incidents  succeed  one  another  with  rapidity, 
but  without  premeditation  ; his  wit  is  easy  and  spontaneous  ; his 
style  animated,  unembarrassed  and  flowing  ; his  characters  full  of 
life  and  spirit.” 


1164 


GEORGE  FARQUHAR. 


1165 


THE  COUNTERFEIT  FOOTMAN. 

From  ‘ The  Beaux’  Stratagem.’ 

Scrub,  a Footman,  and  Archer,  a Supposed  Footman, 
Enter  Mrs.  Sullen  and  Dorinda. 

{They  walk  to  the  opposite  side.  Mrs.  Sullen  drops 
her  fan;  Archer  runs,  takes  it  up,  and  gives  it  to 
her.) 

Archer.  Madam,  your  ladyship’s  fan. 

Mrs.  Sullen.  Oh,  sir,  I thank  you.  What  a handsome 
bow  the  fellow  made ! 

Dorinda.  Bow ! Why,  I have  known  several  footmen 
come  down  from  London,  set  up  here  as  dancing-masters, 
and  carry  off  the  best  fortunes  in  the  country. 

Archer.  {Aside.)  That  project,  for  aught  I know,  had 
been  better  than  ours.  Brother  Scrub,  why  don’t  you  in- 
troduce me? 

Scrub.  Ladies,  this  is  the  strange  gentleman’s  servant, 
that  you  saw  at  church  to-day ; I understand  he  came  from 
London,  and  so  I invited  him  to  the  cellar,  that  he  might 
show  me  the  newest  flourish  in  whetting  my  knives. 

Dorinda.  And  I hope  you  have  made  much  of  him. 

Archer.  Oh,  yes,  madam ; but  the  strength  of  your  lady- 
ship’s liquor  is  a little  too  potent  for  the  constitution  of 
your  humble  servant. 

Mrs.  Sullen.  What!  then  you  don’t  usually  drink  ale? 

Archer.  No,  madam ; my  constant  drink  is  tea,  or  a little 
wine  and  water : ’t  is  prescribed  me  by  the  physicians,  for 
a remedy  against  the  spleen. 

Scrub.  Oh,  la!  Oh,  la!  A footman  have  the  spleen! 

Mrs.  Sullen.  I thought  that  distemper  had  been  only 
proper  to  people  of  quality. 

Archer.  Madam,  like  all  other  fashions  it  wears  out,  and 
so  descends  to  their  servants;  though,  in  a great  many  of 
us,  I believe,  it  proceeds  from  some  melancholy  particles 
in  the  blood,  occasioned  by  the  stagnation  of  wages. 

Dorinda,  How  affectedly  the  fellow  talks!  How  long, 
pray,  have  you  served  your  present  master? 

Archer.  Not  long;  my  life  has  been  mostly  spent  in  the 
service  of  the  ladies. 


116() 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Mrs.  Sullen.  And,  pray,  which  service  do  you  like  best? 

Archer.  Madam,  the  ladies  pay  best;  the  honor  of  serv- 
ing them  is  sufficient  wages ; there  is  a charm  in  their  looks 
that  delivers  a pleasure  with  their  commands,  and  gives 
our  duty  the  wings  of  inclination. 

Mrs.  Sullen.  That  flight  was  above  the  pitch  of  a livery: 
and,  sir,  would  you  not  be  satisfled  to  serve  a lady  again? 

Archer.  As  groom  of  the  chamber,  madam,  but  not  as  a 
footman. 

Mrs.  Sullen.  I suppose  you  served  as  footman  before? 

Archer.  For  that  reason,  I would  not  serve  in  that  post 
again ; for  my  memory  is  too  weak  for  the  load  of  messages 
that  the  ladies  lay  upon  their  servants  in  London.  My 
Lady  Howd’ye,  the  last  mistress  I served,  called  me  up  one 
morning,  and  told  me,  Martin,  go  to  my  Lady  Allnight^ 
with  my  humble  service;  tell  her  I was  to  wait  on  her  lady- 
ship yesterday,  and  left  word  with  Mrs.  Rebecca,  that  the 
preliminaries  of  the  affair  she  knows  of  are  stopped,  till 
we  know  the  concurrence  of  the  person  I know  of,  for 
which  there  are  circumstances  wanting,  which  we  shall 
accommodate  at  the  old  place;  but  that,  in  the  meantime, 
there  is  a person  about  her  ladyship,  that,  from  several 
hints  and  surmises,  was  accessory  at  a certain  time  to  the 
disappointments  that  naturally  attend  things,  that  to  her 
knowledge  are  of  more  importance — 

Mrs.  Sullen  and  Dorinda.  Ha,  ha!  Where  are  you  go- 
ing, sir? 

Archer.  Why,  I havenff  half  done. 

Scruh.  I should  not  remember  a quarter  of  it. 

Archer.  The  whole  howd’ye  was  about  half  an  hour 
long ; I happened  to  misplace  two  syllables,  and  was  turned 
off,  and  rendered  incapable — 

Dorinda.  The  pleasantest  fellow,  sister,  I ever  saw. 
But,  friend,  if  your  master  be  married,  I presume  you  still 
serve  a lady? 

Archer.  No,  madam;  I take  care  never  to  come  into  a 
married  family;  the  commands  of  the  master  and  mistress 
are  always  so  contrary  that  T is  impossible  to  please  both. 

Dorinda.  There ’s  a main  point  gained.  My  lord  is  not 
married,  I find. 

Mrs.  Sullen.  But  I wonder,  friend,  that  in  so  many  good 
services  you  had  not  a better  provision  made  for  you. 


GEORGE  FARQVHAR.  1167 

Archer.  I don’t  know  how,  madam ; I am  very  well  as  I 
am. 

Mrs.  Sullen.  Something  for  a pair  of  gloves. 

{Offering  him  money.) 

Archer.  I humbly  beg  leave  to  be  excused.  My  master, 
madam,  pays  me;  nor  dare  I take  money  from  any  other 
hand  without  injuring  his  honor  and  disobeying  his  com- 
mands. 

Scrub.  Brother  Martin ! brother  Martin ! 

Archer.  What  do  you  say,  brother  Scrub? 

Scrub.  Take  the  money  and  give  it  to  me. 

{Exeunt  Archer  and  Scrub.) 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


(1810—1886.) 

“ Sir  Samuel  Ferguson,  poet  and  antiquary,  the  third  son  of  John 
Ferguson  of  Collon  House,  County  Antrim,  was  born  in  Belfast, 
March  10,  1810.  He  was  educated  at  the  chief  public  school  of  Bel- 
fast, the  Academical  Institution,  and  thence  proceeded  to  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  where  he  was  graduated  B.A.  1826  and  M.A.  1832, 
and  was  created  LL.D.  honoris  causa  in  1864.  In  1838  he  was 
called  to  the  Irish  bar,  and  obtained  some  practice  on  the  northeast 
circuit  of  Ireland.  In  1859  he  was  made  a Queen’s  counsel,  but  in 
1867  he  retired  from  practice  on  his  appointment  as  a deputy  keeper 
of  the  public  records  of  Ireland.  He  was  the  first  holder  of  the 
office,  which  entailed  much  investigation  and  arrangement  of  docu- 
ments. 

“ Just  before  Ferguson’s  appointment  one  of  the  chief  officials  in 
charge  of  the  records  had  publicly  stated  that  the  Irish  statutes 
to  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  were  in  Norman  French,  a language 
never  used  in  Ireland  after  1495,  so  little  were  the  keepers  acquainted 
with  the  records  they  kept.  He  thoroughly  organized  the  depart- 
ment, and  on  March  17,  1878,  Avas  knighted  in  recognition  of  his 
services. 

“ From  its  first  appearance  in  1833  he  was  a contributor  to  The 
Dublin  University  Magazine.  In  it  he  published  in  1834  an  English 
metrical  version  of  the  ‘ Address  of  O’Byrne’s  Bard  to  the  Clans  of 
Wicklow,’  ‘ The  Lament  over  the  Ruins  of  Timoleague  Abbey,’ 
‘The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland,’  and  ‘Forester’s  Complaint,’  1836,  ‘The 
Fairy  Thorn,’  and  ‘Willy  Gilliland.’  At  the  same  period  he  pub- 
lished a series  of  tales  in  which  verse  is  sometimes  mingled  with 
prose,  called  ‘ Hibernian  Nights’  Entertainments.’  These  stories  have 
been  edited  by  Lady  Ferguson  since  their  author’s  death,  and  were 
published  in  London  in  1887,  together  with  a reprint  of  his  first 
volume  of  collected  ‘Poems’  and  the  ‘Remains  of  St.  Patrick,’  a 
translation  into  English  blank  verse  of  the  ‘ Confessio  ’ and  ‘ Epistle 
to  Coroticcus,’  with  a dissertation  on  the  life  of  the  saint.  He  wrote 
two  political  satires,  ‘ Inheritor  and  Economist  ’ and  ‘ Dublin.’ 

‘ ‘ Other  poems  were  published  by  him  in  Blackwood's  Magazine.^ 
of  which  the  best  known  is  ‘The  Forging  of  the  Anchor.’  ‘The 
Wet  Wooing’  was  published  in  the  same  magazine  in  1832,  and  in 
May,  1838,  his  amusing  satirical  dialogue,  illustrative  of  the  Irish 
educational  schemes  then  prominent,  ‘ Father  Tom  and  the  Pope.’ 
This  has  been  reprinted  with  other  contributions  of  his  in  ‘ Tales 
from  Blackwood.’  In  1865  he  published  a volume  of  collected  poems, 
‘ Lays  of  the  Western  Gael  in  1872  ‘ Congal,’  an  epic  poem  in  five 
books  ; in  1880  a third  volume  of  ‘ Poems,’  chiefiy  on  subjects  taken 
from  Irish  literature.  Besides  the  contents  of  these  three  volumes 
a few  separate  poems  of  Ferguson’s  are  in  print.  ‘ The  Elegy  on 
the  Death  of  Thomas  Davis  ’ appeared  in  the  ‘ Ballad  Poetry  of 
Ireland,’  while  the  witty  song  of  ‘ The  Loyal  Orangemen’  was 

1168 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON, 


1169 


never  published,  though  privately  circulated  and  often  recited  in 
Dublin.  Besides  these  numerous  contributions  to  literature,  he 
wrote  many  essays  on  Irish  antiquities,  and  carried  on  lengthy  in- 
vestigations in  several  parts  of  Ireland.  In  1882  he  was  unani- 
mously elected  President  of  the  Eoyal  Irish  Academy. 

“He  married,  Aug.  16,  1848,  Mary  Catharine  Guinness,  and  for 
many  years  he  and  his  wife  practiced  an  open,  generous,  delightful 
hospitality  toward  every  one  in  Dublin  who  cared  for  literature, 
music,  or  art,  at  their  house  in  North  Great  George’s  Street.  He 
died,  after  an  illness  of  some  months,  at  Strand  Lodge,  Howth,  in 
the  county  of  Dublin,  on  Aug.  9,  1886.  After  a public  funeral 
service  in  St.  Patrick’s  Cathedral,  his  body  was  conveyed  to  his 
family  burying-place  at  Donegore,  County  Antrim. 

“ As  an  antiquarian  Ferguson’s  most  important  work  was  his  col- 
lection of  all  the  known  Ogham  inscriptions  of  Ireland  and  their 
publication  (‘  Ogham  Inscriptions  in  Ireland,  Wales,  and  Scotland,’ 
edited  by  Lady  Ferguson,  Edinburgh,  1887).  He  was  laborious  and 
accurate,  and  nearly  all  he  wrote  on  antiquarian  subjects  deserves 
careful  study. 

“ As  a poet  he  deserves  recollection  in  Ireland,  for  he  strove  hard 
to  create  modern  poetry  from  the  old  Irish  tales  of  heroes  and  saints, 
and  history  of  places.  Another  Irish  poet  has  maintained  that  the 
epic  poem  ‘ Congal  ’ entitles  Ferguson  to  live  in  Ireland  as  the 
national  poet,  and  his  long  metrical  versions  of  Irish  sagas  are 
praised  by  Miss  M.  Stokes  and  by  Judge  O’Hagan. 

“He  was  not  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  Irish  language,  and 
perhaps  this  accounts  for  the  fact  that,  while  sometimes  giving  the 
stories  more  beauties  than  he  takes  away,  he  misses  something  of 
the  reality  of  ancient  life,  and  seems  to  talk  of  a shadowy  scene  and 
not  of  the  real  deeds  of  men  and  women.  Several  of  the  poems  of 
his  own  experiences  are  admirable,  and  will  probably  have  a per- 
manent popularity  in  Ireland.  ‘The  Elegy  on  Thomas  Davis,’ 
‘Willy  Gilliland,’  and  the  ‘ Lines  on  the  Liffey  in  Mesgedra,’  are  not 
faultless,  but  they  are  beautiful  poems  with  a true  Irish  air.  His 
antiquarian  knowledge,  his  literary  ability  and  attainments,  made 
Ferguson’s  conversation  delightful,  while  his  high  character  and 
generous  disposition  endeared  him  to  a large  circle  of  friends.” 

Thus  far  we  quote  from  Mr.  Norman  Moore,  in  ‘ The  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography.’ 

Mr.  Alfred  P.  Graves,  in  ‘A  Treasury  of  Irish  Poetry,’  says: 
“Omitting  living  writers,  of  whom  it  is  too  early  to  speak  with 
confidence,  Ferguson  was  unquestionably  the  Irish  poet  of  the  past 
century  who  has  most  powerfully  influenced  the  literary  history  of 
his  country.  It  was  in  his  writings  that  the  great  work  of  restor- 
ing to  Ireland  the  spiritual  treasure  it  had  lost  in  parting  with  the 
Gaelic  tongue  was  decisively  begun.” 

Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere  observes:  “ Its  qualities  are  those  character- 
istic of  the  noble,  not  the  ignoble  poetry — viz.,  passion,  imagination, 
vigor,  an  epic  largeness  of  conception,  wide  human  sj^mpathies, 
vivid  and  truthful  description — while  with  them  it  unites  none  of  the 
vulgar  stimulants  for  exhausted  or  morbid  poetic  appetite,  whether 
the  epicurean  seasoning,  the  skeptical,  or  the  revolutionary.” 

17— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1170 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Professor  Dowden,  writing  to  Ferguson  on  the  subject  of  his  ‘ Con- 
gal,'  says:  “ What  seems  to  me  most  noteworthy  in  your  poems  is 
the  union  of  culture  with  simplicity  and  strength.  Their  refinement 
is  large  and  strong,  not  curious  and  diseased ; and  they  have  spaces 
and  movements  which  give  one  a feeling  like  the  sea  or  the  air  on  a 
headland.  I had  not  meant  to  say  anything  of  ‘ Congal,’  but  some- 
how this  came  and  said  itself.”  And  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  wrote:  “ The 
author  of  these  poems  is  the  greatest  poet  Ireland  has  produced, 
because  the  most  central  and  most  Celtic.  Whatever  the  future 
may  bring  forth  in  the  way  of  a truly  great  and  national  literature — 
and  now  that  the  race  is  so  large,  so  widely  spread,  and  so  conscious 
of  its  unity,  the  years  are  ripe — will  find  its  morning  in  these  three 
volumes  of  one  who  was  made  by  the  purifying  fiame  of  national 
sentiment  the  one  man  of  his  time  who  wrote  heroic  poetry — one 
who,  among  the  somewhat  sybaritic  singers  of  his  day,  was  like 
some  aged  sea-king  sitting  among  the  inland  wheat  and  poppies — 
the  savor  of  the  sea  about  him  and  its  strength.” 


FERGUSON^S  SPEECH  ON  ROBERT  BURNS. 

From  ‘ Mr.  Samuel  Ferguson — Ireland  of  His  Day.’ 

My  Lord  Mayor,  Mr.  Parker,  and  gentlemen,  in  calling 
upon  me,  on  this  occasion,  you  do  me  an  honor,  which  I 
prize  the  more  because  I am  hardly  worthy  of  it ; yet  I may, 
without  vanity,  acknowledge  that  on  this  occasion,  when 
you  celebrate  the  memory  of  the  great  Scottish  poet  in  the 
metropolis  of  Ireland,  there  is  a certain  propriety  in  your 
devolving  that  honorable  task  on  one  like  me,  who,  al- 
though by  the  nativity  of  many  generations  an  Irishman, 
am  yet  by  lineage  and  descent  a Scot.  Six  generations 
and  more  have  passed  since  the  district  of  Antrim,  in  which 
my  infant  ears  first  became  familiar  with  the  accents  of 
Galloway,  was  peopled  from  that  region  which  has  since  be- 
come famous  as  the  land  of  Burns.  Time  has  but  slightly 
altered  the  Scottish  accent  on  our  lips;  and  saving  our 
duty  to  our  own  country,  our  hearts  still  turn  with  pride 
and  affection  to  that  noble  land,  whose  sons  to-day  through- 
out the  civilized  world  offer  tribute  of  a national  homage 
to  the  great  poet  of  Scotland.  Such  a homage  has  not  been 
paid  to  any  man  of  letters  of  modern  times.  Yet  it  is  not 
in  the  extent  merely  of  these  demonstrations — although 
they  embrace  the  whole  circle  of  the  globe,  wherever 
Scotchmen  have  penetrated  in  the  pursuit  of  duty,  of  fame„ 
or  of  fortune — that  we  find  the  magnitude  and  the  marvel 


SIR  SAMVEL  FERGUSON. 


1171 


of  the  praise  that  jou  bestow  upon  him.  It  is  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  nation  that  bestows  it,  and  that  of  the  man  to 
whose  memory  the  tribute  is  offered,  that  we  discern  the 
greatness  and  the  worthiness  of  your  praise.  A nation, 
eager,  and  eminently  successful  in  the  pursuit  of  practical 
objects,  proverbially  prudent,  habituated  to  a rigorous  self- 
control,  selects  for  the  object  of  its  reverence — not  a man 
like  Bentham,  or  like  Franklin, — not  a divine,  a philoso- 
pher, or  an  economist,  but  a child  of  impulse  and  of  pas- 
sion— a proud,  an  improvident,  an  unworldly  man. 

How  comes  this?  By  what  spell  is  it  that  you  are  thus 
drawn  together  in  hundreds  and  thousands,  from  rising  to 
the  setting  of  the  sun,  to  swell  the  tribute  of  honor  to  the 
memory  of  this  man  with  a contagious  fervor  which  draws 
into  the  vortex  of  your  own  enthusiasm  the  sister  capi- 
tals, and  all  the  provincial  towns  in  the  United  Kingdom? 
Whence  comes  it,  asks  the  unobservant  and  thoughtless 
mind,  that  you  should  select  for  your  highest  honors  a man 
apparently  so  dissimilar  to  yourselves?  The  answer  to  the 
inquiry — the  spell  that  brings  you  together — lies  in  the 
depth  of  your  own  character.  It  is  the  old  poetic  fervor  of 
your  race,  that  faculty  which  lies  at  the  basis  of  all  enter- 
prise and  all  fortune,  although  not  discerned  by  those  who 
merely  view  the  surface  of  the  Scottish  character,  which 
recognizes  in  the  poet — in  the  man  of  fervid  soul — the 
true  representative  of  the  character  of  the  Scot  in  its  high- 
est and  best  aspect.  Therefore  it  is  that  you  have  well  and 
wisely  chosen  a poet  as  the  representative  of  your  race  and 
of  your  nation,  a poet  who  commands  the  admiration  of 
mankind,  a poet  who  has  given  utterance  to  the  best  sen- 
timents of  love,  of  tenderness,  of  generosity,  of  patriotism, 
and  of  piety — to  the  most  charming  humor  and  the  bright- 
est wit,  in  numbers  perfectly  melodious,  and  in  language 
which,  notwithstanding  its  dialectic  peculiarities,  is  pre- 
eminently manly,  direct,  and  intelligible.  The  sentiments 
belong  to  the  world.  The  dialect  and  the  poet  are  your 
own. 

When  it  pleased  God  to  ordain  that  the  languages  of 
mankind  should  be  different.  He  left  the  hearts  the  same; 
and  that  speech  which  most  directly  stirs  in  the  breast  of 
man  the  common  sympathies  of  our  nature  is  the  truest 
classic : and  when  we  find  that  those  sympathies  are  evoked 


1172 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


by  language  harmonious  in  its  composition  and  melodious 
in  its  rhythmical  arrangement,  where  rhyme  reinforces 
time,  and  sense  falls  in  with  both,  and  emotion  culminates 
at  every  turning-point  of  the  composition,  then,  by  the  com- 
mon consent  of  mankind,  we  acknowledge  ourselves  in  the 
presence  and  the  power  of  the  poet,  whether  he  speaks  the 
language  of  Attica  or  of  Ayrshire.  This  is  the  true  test 
of  poetic  power,  that  it  stirs  the  hearts  of  men  deeply  and 
widely  by  the  direct  agency  of  simple  and  intelligible  lan- 
guage. Tried  by  this  test,  the  poetry  of  Burns  justifies  the 
unexampled  honors  that  to-day  are  paid  to  his  memory. 
His  poems  have  the  breadth,  the  simplicity,  the  ease,  and 
the  force  of  operations  of  nature.  And  this  is  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  poetry  of  the  Augustan  age  of  every  school 
of  literature,  and  these  demonstrations  of  yours  to-day  will 
do  more  than  all  the  criticisms  of  the  reviews  and  maga- 
zines to  recall  our  writers  from  that  profitless  search  after 
recondite  thought  and  curious  felicities  of  expressions 
which  of  late  in  our  literature  have  become  too  much  the 
fashion,  and  in  which  the  careful  observers  of  the  progress 
of  the  literature  of  older,  nations  might  well  apprehend  the 
approaching  decay  of  letters  in  our  own,  if  the  tendency  of 
our  favorite  writers  to  abandon  the  ancient  models  of  sim- 
plicity and  manliness  be  not  arrested  by  such  demonstra- 
tions as  ours  to-day. 

If  these  meetings  have  no  other  effect  than  to  warn  our 
men  of  letters  that  the  lasting  praises  of  the  generations 
are  not  to  be  obtained  by  intricate,  conceited,  and  curious 
compositions,  they  would  confer  a boon  on  literature,  and 
aid  in  maintaining  the  standard  of  taste.  But,  gentlemen, 
they  have  a wider,  deeper  significance.  Men  will  not  forget 
their  nationalities — men  will  not  lay  down  the  ties  of  birth 
and  of  kindred  at  the  chair  of  any  science  or  of  any  quasi- 
science. We  must  be  Scotchmen,  we  must  be  Irishmen,  and 
we  will  honor  the  memories  of  the  men  whose  genius  has 
asserted  and  won  for  us  our  own  places  for  ourselves  in  the 
temple  of  British  fame.  Honor,  then,  in  full  measure, 
heaped  and  overflowing,  to  the  heaven-born  peasant  who 
has  borne  the  harp  of  his  country  so  high  in  that  temple, 
that  if  it  be  placed  a little  below  the  lyre  of  Shakespeare, 
it  is  still  so  near  that  if  you  make  the  chords  of  one  vi- 
brate, those  of  the  other  will  thrill  in  harmony,  and  who, 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON, 


1173 


haying  achieved  that  position  for  the  lyrical  genius  of  his 
country,  could  say  with  the  modest  nobility  of  a truly 
manly  nature,  I have  been  bred  to  the  plow,  and  I am 
independent.’’  Well  was  it  for  Burns  that  he  was  bred  to 
the  plow — that  he  spent  the  days  of  his  dawning  genius 
in  familiarity  with  nature,  and  not  amongst  the  fine  ladies 
and  fine  gentlemen  whose  neglect  of  him  has  been  deplored 
as  a misfortune,  but  truly  was  a happy  escape  for  him  and 
for  us  all.  Burns  was  not  ashamed  that  he  was  born  a 
son  of  toil.  Why  should  he?  All  the  pursuits  of  industry 
are  honorable,  especially  those  of  the  tiller  of  the  soil. 
The  hands  of  heroes  have  been  familiar  with  the  plow. 
Ulysses,  the  wisest  of  Homeric  worthies,  did  not  blush  to 
confess  his  prowess  in  the  fields.  When  reproached  with 
idleness  by  one  of  the  proud  suitors  of  Penelope,  you  may 
remember  the  noble  spirit  in  which,  associating  the  toils 
of  the  husbandman  with  the  glories  of  the  soldier,  he  re- 
plied— 

“ Forbear,  Eurymachus;  for  were  we  matched 
In  work  against  each  other,  thou  and  I 
Mowing  in  spring-time,  when  the  days  are  long  ; 

Or  if  again  it  were  our  task  to  drive 

Yoked  oxen  in  the  plow  ; and  were  the  field 

In  size  four  acres  ; with  a glebe  through  which 

The  share  might  smoothly  glide:  then  should st  thou  se« 

How  straight  my  furrow  should  be  cut  and  true. 

Or  if  Saturnian  Jove  should  now  excite 
Here  battle,  or  elsewhere  ; and  were  I armed 
With  two  bright  spears,  and  with  a shield,  and  bore 
A brazen  casque  well  fitted  to  my  brows  : 

Me  then  thou  shouldst  behold  mingling  in  fight 
Among  the  foremost  chiefs,  nor  with  the  crime 
Of  idle  beggary  shouldst  reproach  me  more.” 

Ulysses,  gentlemen,  did  not  conceive  that  skill  in  the 
manual  labors  of  the  field  detracted  in  aught  from  his 
position  as  a prince  and  chieftain ; nor  in  the  case  of  Burns 
has  it  detracted  one  tittle  from  his  pre-eminence  as  a leader 
among  the  intellects  of  his  country.  Let  no  regrets  mingle 
with  your  festive  offerings  to  his  memory.  No  one  with 
truth  can  say  his  life  was  unhappy.  As  toil  is  incident  to 
the  eating  of  daily  bread,  despondency  is  incident  to  the 
poetic  temperament;  and  he  could  not  have  had  that  keen 
enjoyment  of  existence  had  he  not  sometimes  suffered  those 


1174 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


fits  of  despondency  which  are  inseparable  from  the  poetic 
temperament.  He  who  enjoyed  in  a measure  so  exalted  the 
raptures  of  love,  the  delights  of  friendship,  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  fancy — no  one  can  affirm  that  such  a man  was 
unhappy.  Neither  let  the  libation  you  pour  to  his  memory 
be  dashed  by  any  bitter  thought  of  supposed  neglect  or  in- 
gratitude in  his  country.  Gentlemen,  that  is  not  so.  Much 
as  Burns  has  done  for  Scotland,  Scotland,  before  Burns 
was  born,  had  done  more  for  him. 

He  was  born  the  child  of  a proud,  of  a renowned  and 
glorious  country.  For  him,  as  for  all  the  genius  of  future 
time,  Wallace  had  made  the  banks  of  Irvine  holy  ground — 
for  him  Bruce  shook  his  Garrick  spear — for  him,  as  for 
every  child  of  genius  that  the  soil  of  Scotland  should  pro- 
duce to  the  end  of  time,  the  genius  of  Scottish  music  had 
made  the  hills  and  valleys  of  his  country  vocal  with  melo- 
dies soliciting  to  song — for  him  courageous-hearted  ances- 
tors, brave  and  pious  men,  had  fought  and  bled — had 
watched  and  pra^^ed  on  mountain  and  on  moor — had 
offered  up  the  sacrifice  of  their  blood  for  Scotland’s  reli- 
gious freedom, — that  the  cottier  on  his  Saturday  even 
might  be  free  to  open  his  big  hall  Bible  by  his  own  hearth- 
stone, and  that  amid  scenes  of  patriarchal  simplicity, 
piety,  and  virtue,  of  manly  self-reliance,  and  bold  self-asser- 
tion, the  young  germ  of  genius  might  unfold  itself  in 
safety.  Let  no  man,  therefore,  say  that  Scotland  had  not 
done  her  part.  No,  she  has  not  been  wanting.  She  is  no 
unworthy  mother  of  her  noble  son.  In  honoring  him  you 
honor  her  and  yourselves.  With  full  hearts,  then,  and  with 
consciences  discharged  of  all  feeling  of  breach  of  duty  to- 
wards the  man  whose  memory  we  are  met  to  celebrate,  let 
us  drain  this  bumper  toast  to  the  memory  of  Eobert  Burns. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin^s  anchor  forged;  ’t  is  at  a white  heat 
now : 

The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased;  tho’  on  the  forge’s 
brow 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  thro’  the  sable  mound ; 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round, 


SIR  SAMVEL  FERGUSON, 


1175 


All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  bare ; 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass 
there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black  mound  heaves 
below;  * 

And  red  and  deep,  a hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every  throe : 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O,  Vulcan,  what  a glow! 

’T  is  blinding  white,  T is  blasting  bright;  the  high  sun  shines 
not  so ! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful  show ; 

The  roof  ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 

Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the 
foe; 

As,  quivering  thro’  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  monster, 
slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about,  the  faces  fiery  glow — 

Hurrah ! ” they  shout,  leap  out — leap  out ; ” bang,  bang,  the 
sledges  go: 

Hurrah ! the  Jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and  low ; 

A hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow ; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ; the  rattling  cinders  strow 

The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fountains 
flow. 

And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd  at  every  stroke  pant 
a ho ! ” 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters ; leap  out  and  lay  on  load ! 

Let ’s  forge  a goodly  anchor — a bower  thick  and  broad ; 

For  a heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I bode; 

And  I see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a perilous  road — 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of  ocean  poured 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea ; the  mainmast  by  the  board ; 

The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove  at  the 
chains! 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners — the  Bower  yet  remains. 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye  pitch  sky 
high. 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  tho’  he  said,  Fear  nothing — here  am 
I!” 


Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep  time ; 
Your  blows  mtike  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple’s  chime; 
llut,  while  ye  sling  your  sledges,  sing — and  let  the  burden  be. 
The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling  red ; 


1176 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will  soon  be 
sped; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  its  bed  of  fiery  rich  array, 

For  a hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  craftsmen  here. 
For  the  yeo-heave-o’,  and  the  heave-away,  and  the  sighing  sea- 
man’s cheer ; 

.When,  weighing  slow  at  eve  they  go — far,  far  from  love  and 
home ; 

And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a row,  wail  o’er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last ; 

A shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e’er  from  cat  was  cast. — 

O trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me. 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep  green 
sea ! 

O deep-sea  Diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights  as  thou  ? 
The  hoary-monster’s  palaces!  methinks  what  joy  ’twere  now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the  whales. 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their  scourging 
tails ! 

Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fieT^ce  sea  unicorn. 

And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his  ivory  horn; 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn; 

And  for  the  ghastly  grinning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws  to 
scorn : — 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken’s  back,  where  ’mid  Norwegian 
isles 

He  lies,  a lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles. 

Till,  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far  astonished  shoals 
Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves ; or,  haply  in  a cove, 
Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine  love, 

To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens;  or,  hard-by  icy  lands, 

To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

O broad-armed  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can  equal 
thine? 

The  Dolphin  weighs  a thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy  cable  line; 
And  night  by  night ’t  is  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day. 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game  to  play — 
But  shamer  of  our  little  sports ! forgive  the  name  I gave — 

A fisher’s  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 

O lodger  in  the  sea-king’s  halls,  couldst  thou  but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that  dripping 
band, 


SIR  SAMVEL  FERGUSON, 


1177 


Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about  thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a dream  blessing  their  ancient 
friend — 

Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger  steps 
round  thee. 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ; thou  Mst  leap  within 
the  sea! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant  strand. 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Fatherland — 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  churchyard 
grave, 

So  freely,  for  a restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave — 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I have  fondly  sung, 
Honor  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes  among! 


LAMENT  OVER  THE  RUINS  OP  THE  ABBEY 
OF  TIMOLEAGUE. 

Lone  and  weary  as  I wandered 
By  the  bleak  shore  of  the  sea. 

Meditating  and  reflecting 
On  the  world’s  hard  destiny ; 

Forth  the  moon  and  stars  ’gan  glimmer 
In  the  quiet  tide  beneath, — 

For  on  slumbering  spray  and  blossom 
Breathed  not  out  of  heaven  a breath. 

On  I went  in  sad  dejection. 

Careless  where  my  footsteps  bore 
Till  a ruined  church  before  me 
Opened  wide  its  ancient  door, — 

Till  I stood  before  the  portals, 

Where  of  old  were  wont  to  be, 

For  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  leper, 

Alms  and  hospitality. 

Still  the  ancient  seat  was  standing 
Built  against  the  buttress  gray 
Where  the  clergy  used  to  welcome 
Weary  travelers  on  their  way. 


1178 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


There  I sat  me  down  in  sadness, 

’Neath  my  cheek  I placed  my  hand, 
Till  the  tears  fell  hot  and  briny 
Down  upon  the  grassy  land. 

There,  I said  in  woful  sorrow. 

Weeping  bitterly  the  while. 

Was  a time  when  joy  and  gladness 
Reigned  within  this  ruined  pile:— 

Was  a time  when  bells  were  tinkling, 
Clergy  preaching  peace  abroad. 

Psalms  a-singing,  music  ringing 
Praises  to  the  mighty  God. 

Empty  aisle,  deserted  chancel. 

Tower  tottering  to  your  fall, 

Many  a storm  since  then  has  beaten 
On  the  gray  head  of  your  wall ! 

Many  a bitter  storm  and  tempest 
Has  your  roof -tree  turned  away. 

Since  you  first  were  formed  a temple 
To  the  Lord  of  night  and  day. 

Holy  house  of  ivied  gables. 

That  wert  once  the  country’s  pride. 
Houseless  now  in  weary  wandering 
Roam  your  inmates  far  and  wide. 

Lone  you  are  to-day,  and  dismal, — 
Joyful  psalms  no  more  are  heard 
Where,  within  your  choir,  her  vesper 
Screeches  the  cat-headed  bird. 

Ivy  from  your  eaves  is  growing. 

Nettles  round  your  green  hearth-stone, 
Foxes  howl,  where,  in  your  corners. 
Dropping  waters  make  their  moan. 

Where  the  lark  to  early  matins 
Used  your  clergy  forth  to  call. 

There!  alas  no  tongue  is  stirring. 

Save  the  daws’  upon  the  wall. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON, 


1179 


Refectory  cold  and  empty, 

Dormitory  bleak  and  bare, 

Where  are  now  your  pious  uses, 
Simple  bed  and  frugal  fare? 

Gone  your  abbot,  rule,  and  order, 
Broken  down  your  altar  stones; 

Naught  see  I beneath  your  shelter 
Save  a heap  of  clayey  bones. 

Oh!  the  hardship,  oh!  the  hatred. 
Tyranny,  and  cruel  war. 

Persecution  and  oppression. 

That  have  left  you  as  you  are! 

I myself  once  also  prospered ; — 

Mine  is,  too,  an  altered  plight. 

Trouble,  care,  and  age  have  left  me 
Good  for  naught  but  grief  to-night. 

Gone,  my  motion  and  my  vigor, — 
Gone,  the  use  of  eye  and  ear ; 

At  my  feet  lie  friends  and  children, 
Powerless  and  corrupting  here. 

Woe  is  written  on  my  visage 
In  a nut  my  heart  would  lie — 

Death’s  deliverance  were  welcome — 
Father,  let  the  old  man  die. 


OWEN  BAWN. 

This  refers  to  the  rigid  prohibition  of  the  intermarriage  with  the 
native  Irish  by  William  de  Burghs,  Earl  of  Ulster,  in  A.D.  1333, 
which  led  to  the  Irish  return  from  beyond  the  river  Bawn  and  the 
expulsion  of  the  English  from  all  Ulster. 

My  Owen  Bawn’s  hair  is  of  thread  of  gold  spun ; 

Of  gold  in  the  shadow,  of  light  in  the  sun ; 

All  curled  in  a coolun  the  bright  tresses  are — 

They  make  his  head  radiant  with  beams  like  a star! 

My  Owen  Bawn’s  mantle  is  long  and  is  wide. 

To  wrap  me  up  safe  from  the  storm  by  his  side: 


1180 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


And  I M rather  face  snowdrift,  and  winter-wind  there, 

Than  lie  among  daisies  and  sunshine  elsewhere. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quinn  is  a bold  fisherman, 

He  tracks  the  dun  quarry  with  arrow  and  spear — 

Where  wild  woods  are  waving,  and  deep  waters  flow, 

Oh,  there  goes  my  love  with  the  dun-dappled  roe. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quinn  is  a bard  of  the  best. 

He  spears  the  strong  salmon  in  midst  of  the  Bann; 

And  rocked  in  the  tempest  on  stormy  Lough  Neagh, 

Draws  up  the  red  trout  through  the  bursting  of  spray. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quinn  is  a hunter  of  deer. 

He  wakes  me  with  singing,  he  sings  me  to  rest ; 

And  the  emit  ^ ^neath  his  fingers  rings  up  with  a sound, 

As  though  angels  harped  o’er  us,  and  fays  underground. 

They  tell  me  the  stranger  has  given  command. 

That  crommeal  2 and  coolun  shall  cease  in  the  land. 

That  all  our  youths’  tresses  of  yellow  be  shorn. 

And  bonnets,  instead,  of  a new  fashion  worn. 

That  mantles  like  Owen  Bawn’s  shield  us  no  more. 

That  hunting  and  fishing  henceforth  we  give  o’er. 

That  the  net  and  the  arrow  aside  must  be  laid. 

For  hammer  and  trowel,  and  mattock  and  spade. 

That  the  echoes  of  music  must  sleep  in  their  caves. 

That  the  slave  must  forget  his  own  tongue  for  a slave’s. 

That  the  sound  of  our  lips  must  be  strange  in  our  ears. 

And  our  bleeding  hands  toil  in  the  dew  of  our  tears. 

Oh  sweetheart  and  comfort ! with  thee  by  my  side, 

I could  love  and  live  happy,  whatever  betide; 

But  thou,  in  such  bondage,  wouldst  die  ere  a day — 

Away  to  Tir-oen,  then,  Owen,  away ! 

There  are  wild  woods  and  mountains,  and  streams  deep  and 
clear. 

There  are  loughs  in  Tir-oen  as  lovely  as  here ; 

There  are  silver  harps  ringing  in  Yellow  Hugh’s  hall. 

And  a bower  by  the  forest  side,  sweetest  of  all ! 

1 Cruit,  a small  harp.  ^ Crommeal,  mustache. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


1181 


We  will  dwell  by  the  sunshiny  skirts  of  the  brake, 

Where  the  sycamore  shadow^s  glow  deep  in  the  lake ; 

And  the  snowy  swan  stirring  the  green  shadows  there, 

Afloat  on  the  water,  seems  floating  in  air. 

Away  to  Tir-oen,  then,  Owen,  aw^ay ! 

We  will  leave  them  the  dust  from  our  feet  for  a prey. 

And  our  dwelling  in  ashes  and  flames  for  a spoil— 

will  be  long  ere  they  quench  them  with  streams  of  the  Foyle ! 


CASHEL  OF  MUNSTER. 

IRISH  RUSTIC  BALLAD. 

I ^d  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money,  or  rich  array , 

And  I ’d  wed  you  on  a dewy  morning  at  day-dawn  gray ; 

My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  awmy 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  boards  were  our  marriage- 
bed  this  day. 

Oh,  fair  maid,  remember  the  green  hillside; 

Remember  how  I hunted  about  the  valleys  wide; 

Time  now  has  worn  me;  my  locks  are  turned  to  gray. 

The  year  ^s  scarce  and  I am  poor,  but  send  me  not,  love,  away. 

Oh,  deem  not  my  blood  is  of  base  strain,  my  girl. 

Oh,  deem  not  my  birth  was  as  the  birth  of  the  churl ; 

Marry  me,  and  prove  me,  and  say  soon  you  will. 

That  noble  blood  is  written  on  my  right  side  still. 

My  purse  holds  no  red  gold,  no  coin  of  the  silver  white; 

No  herds  are  mine  to  drive  through  the  long  twilight ! 

But  the  pretty  girl  that  would  take  me,  all  bare  though  I be, 
and  lone. 

Oh,  I M take  her  with  me  kindly  to  the  County  Tyrone. 

Oh,  my  girl,  I can  see ’t  is  in  trouble  you  are, 

And,  oh,  my  girl,  I see ’t  is  your  people’s  reproach  you  bear; 

I am  a girl  in  trouble  for  his  sake  with  whom  I fly, 

And,  oh,  may  no  other  maiden  know  such  reproach  as  I ! 


1182 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


MOLLY  ASTHORE. 

O Mary  dear,  O Mary  fair, 

0 branch  of  generous  stem, 

White  blossom  of  the  banks  of  Nair, 

Though  lilies  grow  on  them; 

You  Ve  left  me  sick  at  heart  for  love, 

So  faint  I cannot  see. 

The  candle  swims  the  board  above, 

1 ^m  drunk  for  love  of  th^e. 

0 stately  stem  of  maiden  pride. 

My  woe  it  is  and  pain. 

That  I still  severed  from  thy  side 
The  long  night  must  remain. 

Through  all  the  towns  of  Inisfail 
I wandered  far  and  wide ; 

But  from  Downpatrick  to  Kinsale, 

From  Carlow  to  Kilbride, 

^Mong  lords  and  dames  of  high  degree, 
Wherever  my  feet  have  gone. 

My  Mary,  one  to  equal  thee 
I Ve  never  looked  upon ; 

1 live  in  darkness  and  in  doubt 
Whene’er  my  love ’s  away, 

But  were  the  blessed  sun  put  out. 

Her  shadow  would  make  day. 

’T  is  she  indeed,  young  bud  of  bliss. 

And  gentle  as  she ’s  fair. 

Though  lily-white  her  bosom  is. 

And  sunny-bright  her  hair. 

And  dewy-azure  her  blue  eye. 

And  rosy-red  her  cheek. 

Yet  brighter  she  in  modesty. 

More  beautifully  meek; 

The  world’s  wise  men  from  north  to  south 
Can  never  cure  my  pain, 

But  one  kiss  from  her  honey  mouth. 

Would  make  me  whole  again. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


1183 


CEAN  DUBH  DEELISH.i 

Put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling. 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 

O mouth  of  honey  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who  with  heart  in  breast  could  deny  you  love? 

O many  and  many  a young  girl  for  me  is  pining, 
Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  winds  free. 

For  me,  the  foremost  of  the  gay  young  fellows. 

But  I ’d  leave  a hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee. 

Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 

O mouth  of  honey  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance. 
Who  with  heart  in  breast  could  deny  you  love? 


THE  LAPFUL  OF  NUTS. 

Whene’er  I see  soft  hazel  eyes. 

And  nut-brown  curls, 

I think  of  those  bright  days  I spent 
Among  the  Limerick  girls; 

When  up  through  Gratia  woods  I went 
Nutting  with  thee; 

And  we  plucked  the  glossy,  clustering  fruit 
From  many  a bending  tree. 

Beneath  the  hazel  boughs  we  sat. 

Thou,  love,  and  I, 

And  the  gathered  nuts  lay  in  thy  lap. 

Below  thy  downcast  eye. 

But  little  we  thought  of  the  store  we ’d  won, 

I,  love,  or  thou. 

For  our  hearts  were  full,  and  we  dare  not  own 
The  love  that ’s  spoken  now. 

O there ’s  wars  for  willing  hearts  in  Spain, 
And  high  Germanie! 

And  T ’ll  come  back,  if  I ever  come  back, 
With  knightly  fame  and  fee, 

1 Cean  duhh  deelish,  dear  black  head. 


1184 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


And  I come  back,  if  I ever  come  back, 
Faithful  to  thee, 

That  sat,  with  thy  white  lap  full  of  nuts, 
Beneath  the  hazel-tree. 


PASTHEEN  FION. 

From  the  Irish. 

Oh,  my  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart’s  delight ; 

Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright ; 

Like  the  apple  blossom  her  bosom  white. 

And  her  neck  like  the  swan’s  on  a March  morn  bright ! 
Then,  Oro,  come  with  me ! come  with  me ! come  with  me ! 
Oro,  come  with  me ! brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And  oh ! I would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 
If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Love  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen ! 

Her  cheeks  are  as  red  as  the  rose’s  sheen. 

But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I ween. 

Than  the  glass  I drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me ! come  with  me ! etc. 

Were  I in  the  town,  where ’s  mirth  and  glee, 

Or  ’twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree. 

With  my  fair  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 

’T  is  I would  drink  to  her  pleasantly ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me ! come  with  me  I etc. 

Nine  nights*!  lay  in  longing  and  pain, 

Betwixt  two  bushes,  beneath  the  rain. 

Thinking  to  see  you,  love,  once  again ; 

But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me ! come  with  me ! etc. 

I ’ll  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe ; 

From  all  the  girls  in  the  world  I ’ll  go; 

But  from  you,  sweetheart,  oh,  never ! oh,  no ! 

Till  I lie  in  the  coflSn  stretched,  cold  and  low ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me!  come  with  me!  etc. 


SIR  8A3IUEL  FERGUSON. 


1185 


THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  IRELAND. 

From  the  Irish. 

A very  close  translation,  in  the  original  meter,  of  an  Irish  song 
of  unknown  authorship  dating  from  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  The  refrain  means  “ O sad  lament.” 

A plenteous  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer, 

Uileacdn  duhh  0! 

Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow  barley 
ear,  Uileacdn  diibh  0! 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  vales  expand. 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters  fanned ; 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i^  the  yellow 
sand 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curled  he  is  and  ringleted,  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacdn  duhh  0! 

Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  Sea, 

Uileacdn  duhh  0! 

And  I will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but  stand, 

Unto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fragrant  strand. 
And  leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth  and  high  com- 
mand. 

For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 
Uileacdn  duhh  0! 

The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wondrously  abound, 

Uileacdn  duhh  0! 

The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand. 

And  the  cuckoo  ^s  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland. 

And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i^  the  forests 
grand 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 


LOOKING  SEAWARD. 

From  ‘ Congal.’ 

He  looking  landward  from  the  brow  of  some  great  sea-cape’s 
head, 

Bray  or  Ben-Edar — sees  beneath,  in  silent  pageant  grand, 

Slow  fields  of  sunshine  spread  o’er  fields  of  rich,  corn-bearing 
land ; 


1186 


IRmH  LITERATURE. 


Red  glebe  and  meadow  margin  green  commingling  to  the  view 

With  yellow  stubble,  browning  woods,  and  upland  tracts  of 
blue; 

Then,  sated  with  the  pomp  of  fields,  turns  seaward,  to  the 
verge 

Where,  mingling  with  the  murmuring  wash  made  by  the  far- 
down  surge. 

Comes  up  the  clangorous  song  of  birds  unseen,  that,  low  be- 
neath. 

Poised  off  the  rock,  ply  underfoot;  and,  ’mid  the  blossoming 
heath. 

And  mint,  sweet  herb  that  loves  the  ledge  rare-aired,  at  ease 
reclined. 

Surveys  the  wide  pale-heaving  floor  crisped  by  a curling  wind ; 

With  all  its  shifting,  shadowy  belts,  and  chasing  scopes  of 
green, 

Sun-strown,  foam-freckled,  sail-embossed,  and  blackening 
squalls  between. 

And  slant,  cerulean-skirted  showers  that  with  a drowsy  sound. 

Heard  inward,  of  ebullient  waves,  stalk  all  the  horizon  round; 

And — haply,  being  a citizen  just  ’scaped  from  some  disease 

That  long  has  held  him  sick  indoors,  now,  in  the  brine-fresh 
breeze. 

Health-salted,  bathes;  and  says,  the  while  he  breathes  reviving 
bliss, 

I am  not  good  enough,  O God,  nor  pure  enough  for  this ! ” 


GRACE  NUGENT. 

From  the  Irish  of  O’Carolan. 

Brightest  blossom  of  the  spring 
Grace  the  sprightly  girl  I sing ; 

Grace  who  bore  the  palm  of  mind 
From  all  the  rest  of  womankind. 
Whomsoe’er  the  fates  decree. 

Happy  fate  for  life  to  be, 

Day  and  night  my  coolun  near. 

Ache  or  pain  need  never  fear. 

Her  neck  outdoes  the  stately  swan. 
Her  radiant  face  the  summer  dawn; 
Happy  thrice  the  youth  for  whom 
The  fates  design  that  branch  of  bloom. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


1187 


Pleasant  are  thy  words  benign, 

Rich  those  azure  eyes  of  thine; 

Ye  who  see  my  queen  beware 
Those  twisted  links  of  golden  hair. 

This  is  what  I fain  would  say 
To  the  bird-voiced  lady  gay — 

Never  yet  conceived  the  heart, 

Joy  that  grace  could  not  impart, 
Fold  of  jewels,  case  of  pearls, 
Coolun  of  the  circling  curls ! 

More  I say  not,  but  no  less. 

Drink  your  health  and  happiness. 


MILD  MABEL  KELLY. 

From  the  Irish  of  O’Carolan. 

Whoever  the  youth  who  by  Heaven’s  decree 

Has  his  happy  right  hand  ’neath  that  bright  head  of  thine, 
’T  is  certain  that  he 
From  all  sorrow  is  free. 

Till  the  day  of  his  death,  if  a life  so  divine 
Should  not  raise  him  in  bliss  above  mortal  degree. 

Mild  Mabel  Ni  Kelly,  bright  coolun  of  curls! 

All  stately  and  pure  as  the  swan  on  the  lake. 

Her  mouth  of  white  teeth  is  a palace  of  pearls. 

And  the  youth  of  the  land  are  love-sick  for  her  sake. 

No  strain  of  the  sweetest  e’er  heard  in  the  land 

That  she  knows  not  to  sing,  in  a voice  so  enchanting. 

That  the  cranes  on  the  sand 
Fall  asleep  where  they  stand. 

Oh,  for  her  blooms  the  rose,  and  the  lily  ne’er  waiting 
To  shed  its  mild  luster  on  bosom  or  hand. 

The  dewy  blue  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  spray 
More  blue  than  her  eyes  human  eye  never  saw. 

Deceit  never  lurked  in  its  beautiful  ray. 

Dear  lady,  I drink  to  you,  slainte  go  bragh ! i 

To  gaze  on  her  beauty  the  young  hunter  lies 
’Mong  the  branches  that  shadow  her  path  in  the  grove. 

But  alas,  if  her  eyes 
The  rash  gazer  surprise, 

* Slainte  go  bragh,  your  health  for  ever. 


1188 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


All  eyesight  departs  from  the  victim  of  love, 

And  the  blind  youth  steals  home  with  his  heart  full  of  sighs. 
O,  pride  of  the  Gael  of  the  lily-white  palm ! 

O coolun  of  curls  to  the  grass  at  your  feet ! 

At  the  goal  of  delight  and  of  honor  I am 
To  boast  such  a theme  for  a song  so  unmeet. 


THE  COOLUN.i 

Translated  from  the  Irish  of  Maurice  Dugan  or  O’Dugan. 

O had  you  seen  the  Coolun, 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo’s  street. 

With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 
On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet. 

O my  love  she  is,  and  my  cailin  6g,^ 

And  she  dwells  in  Bal’nagar; 

And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright, 

From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 

In  Bal’nagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek; 

Bright  beauty  dwells  for  ever 
On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek; 

O sweeter  is  her  mouth’s  soft  music 
Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 

Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 
Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 

Rise  up,  my  boy ! make  ready 
My  horse,  for  I forth  would  ride. 

To  follow  the  modest  damsel. 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hillside: 

For  e’er  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted. 

In  faith,  troth,  and  wedlock  true — 

O she ’s  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over. 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo! 

O ever  since  my  childhood 

I loved  the  fair  and  darling  child; 

But  our  people  came  between  us, 

xind  with  lucre  our  pure  love  defiled: 

I Anchidl-fhionn,  maiden  of  fair  flowing  locks.  ^ Cailin  6g,  young  girl. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


1189 


0 my  woe  it  is,  and  my  bitter  pain, 

And  I weep  it  night  and  day, 

That  the  cailin  Ian  of  my  early  love 
Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure, 

Be  constant  still,  and  true ; 

Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses 
Leave  one  who  would  ne’er  leave  you. 

1 ’ll  pledge  you  the  blessM  Bible, 

Without  and  eke  within, 

That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us, 
Without  thanks  to  kith  or  kin. 

O love,  do  you  remember 
When  we  lay  all  night  alone, 

Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter  storm. 
When  the  oak  wood  round  did  groan? 

No  shelter  then  from  the  blast  had  we. 
The  bitter  blast  or  sleet. 

But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads, 
And  my  coat  around  our  feet. 


PERCY  HETHERINGTON  FITZGERALD. 

(1834  ) 

Percy  Hetherington  Fitzgerald,  M.A.,  F.S.A.,  was  born  in 
Fane  Valley,  County  Louth,  in  1834.  He  was  educated  at  Stony- 
hurst  College,  Lancashire,  and  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  after  which 
he  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar  and  appointed  Crown  Prosecutor. 

He  is  the  author  of  many  works  of  fiction,  most  of  which  origi- 
nally appeared  in  All  the  Year  Round  and  Once  a Week. 

Mr.  Fitzgerald  is  a most  industrious  literary  worker,  and  has  pub- 
lished, besides  ‘The  Lives  of  the  Sheridans,’  ‘Charles  Lamb,  his 
Friends,  his  Haunts,  and  his  Books,’  ‘ Life  of  David  Garrick,’  ‘ The 
Kembles,’  ‘The  Life  of  George  IV.,’  ‘The  Royal  Dukes  and  Prin- 
cesses of  the  Family  of  George  III.,’  ‘Life  and  Times  of  William 
IV.,’  and  ‘ Fifty  Years  of  Catholic  Life  and  Social  Progress.’ 

SHERIDAN  AS  ORATOR. 

From  ‘ The  Lives  of  the  Sheridans.’ 

Sheridan^s  oratorical  reputation  is  mainly  founded  on 
those  set  ’’  and  prepared  speeches  delivered  on  stirring 
occasions,  which  are  to  be  read  in  collections.  But  these 
carefully  studied  efforts  give  little  idea  of  his  general 
powers.  It  is  only  by  going  very  carefully  through  the 
series  of  reports  furnished  so  dramatically  and  accurately 
by  Memory  Wood  fall  that  we  see  what  a conspicuous 
figure  he  was  in  the  ordinary  routine  discussions  of  the 
House.  Having  carefully  followed  him  through  some  of 
these  conspicuous  years,  I find  how  industrious,  versatile, 
and  combative  he  showed  himself.  It  was,  in  fact,  as  a 

debater  ’’  that  he  here  exhibited  those  gifts,  being  always 
ready  with  some  brilliant,  if  not  theatrical,  attack  on,  or 
reply  to  Pitt — or  to  Burke,  when  the  latter  began  to  sit  on 
the  Treasury  benches. 

Wraxall  has  left  a really  admirable  picture  of  him,  with 
an  acute  analysis  of  the  arts,  gifts,  and  devices  by  which 
he  gained  his  influence  over  the  House : Sheridan  exposed 

an  angry  antagonist  by  sallies  of  wit,  or  attacked  him  with 
classic  elegance  of  satire;  performing  this  arduous  task  in 
the  face  of  a crowded  assembly,  without  losing  for  an  in- 
stant either  his  presence  of  mind,  his  facility  of  expression, 
or  his  good  humor.  He  wounded  deepest,  indeed,  when  he 

1190 


'PERCY  HETEERINGTON  FITZGERALD,  1191 

smiled ; and  convulsed  his  hearers  with  laughter,  while  the 
object  of  his  ridicule  or  animadversion  was  twisting  under 
the  lash.  Nor  did  he,  while  thus  chastising  his  adversary, 
alter  a muscle  of  his  own  countenance;  which,  as  well  as 
his  gestures,  seemed  to  participate  and  display  the  unalter- 
able serenity  of  his  intellectual  formation.’’ 

It  will  be  noted  what  a happy  and  subtle  art  of  descrip- 
tion is  here  shown  by  this  observer,  who  goes  on : 

Earely  did  he  elevate  his  voice,  and  never  except  in  sub- 
servience to  the  dictates  of  his  judgment,  with  the  view 
to  produce  a corresponding  effect  on  his  audience.  Yet  he 
was  always  heard,  generally  listened  to  with  eagerness, 
and  could  obtain  a hearing  at  almost  any  hour.  Burke, 
who  wanted  Sheridan’s  nice  tact  and  his  amenity  of  man- 
ner, was  continually  coughed  down;  and  on  those  occasions 
he  lost  his  temper.  Even  Fox  often  tired  the  House  by  the 
repetitions  which  he  introduced  into  his  speeches.  Sheri- 
dan never  abused  their  patience. 

At  this  period  of  his  life,  when  he  was  not  more  than 
thkty-three  years  of  age,  his  countenance  and  features  had 
in  them  something  peculiarly  pleasing;  indicative  at  once 
of  intellect,  humor,  and  gayety.  All  these  characteristics 
played  about  his  lips  when  speaking,  and  operated  with  in- 
conceivable attraction ; for  they  anticipated,  as  it  were,  to 
the  eye,  the  effect  produced  by  his  oratory  on  the  ear;  thus 
opening  for  him  a sure  way  to  the  heart  or  the  under- 
standing. Even  the  tones  of  his  voice,  which  were  singu- 
larly mellifluous,  aided  the  general  effect  of  his  eloquence ; 
nor  was  it  accompanied  by  Burke’s  unpleasant  accent. 
Pitt’s  enunciation  was  unquestionably  more  imposing,  dig- 
nified, and  sonorous;  Fox  displayed  more  argument,  as 
well  as  vehemence;  Burke  possessed  more  fancy  and  en- 
thusiasm ; but  Sheridan  won  his  way  by  a sort  of  fascina- 
tion. At  thirty-three  it  might  be  said  of  his  aspect,  as 
Milton  does  of  the  fallen  angel’s  form, 

“ ‘ His  face  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness.’  ” 

Lord  Brougham,  who  had  heard  him  speak,  justly  says: 
His  worst  efforts  were  those  which  he  preferred  himself, 
full  of  imagery  often  far  fetched,  oftener  gorgeous  and 
loaded  with  point  that  drew  the  attention  of  the  hearer 


1192 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


away  from  the  thoughts  to  the  words;  and  his  best  by  far 
were  those  where  he  declaimed  with  his  deep,  clear  voice, 
though  somewhat  thick  utterance,  with  a fierce  defiance  of 
some  adversary,  or  an  unappeasable  vengeance  against 
some  act;  or  reasoned  rapidly,  in  a like  tone,  upon  some 
plain  matter  of  fact,  and  exposed  as  plainly  to  homely 
ridicule  some  puerile  sophism.  In  all  this  his  admirable 
manner  was  aided  by  an  eye  singularly  piercing  (and  he 
adds  in  a note  that  it  had  the  singularity  of  never  wink- 
ing and  a countenance  which,  though  coarse  and  even 
in  some  features  gross,  was  animated  and  expressive,  and 
could  easily  assume  the  figure  of  both  rage  and  menace 
and  scorn.  With  all  his  ingenious  tropes  and  far-fetched 
similes  (such  as  the  picture  of  Napoleon  having  Hhrones 
for  his  watch-towers,  and  for  the  palisades  of  his  castle 
scepters  tipped  or  stuck  with  crowns^) — for  he  experi- 
mented in  various  forms  of  the  image — there  came  some 
natural  burst,  like  that  on  the  liberty  of  the  Press,  when 
he  pictured  both  Houses  as  venal  and  corrupt.  Court  and 
Prince  bad : ^ Give  me  but  an  unfettered  Press,  and  I will 
defy  them  to  encroach  a hair’s-breadth  upon  the  liberties 
of  England ! ’ ’’  But  it  would  take  a volume  to  deal  with 
the  subject  of  this  remarkable  man^s  oratory. 

On  the  other  hand,  from  perpetual  exhibition,  we  find 
much  that  is  artificial  and  mechanical  in  his  various 
methods;  as,  in  contriving  an  apparently  spontaneous  re- 
ply to  an  adversary,  if  the  latter  used  a quotation,  he 
would  hurry  out  to  consult  the  book,  and  discover  some- 
thing preceding  or  following  the  quoted  passage  which 
would  give  it  a new  turn. 

If  a friend  made  a sally  or  used  an  original  metaphor 
capable  of  political  application,  he  would  take  it  as  his 
own  on  the  first  opportunity.  He  had  also  many  pleasant 
thoughts  carefully  cut  and  dried,^’  as  it  is  called,  ready 
for  application  to  certain  characters.  For  some  of  his 
most  telling  replies  his  habit  was  to  retire  to  a neighbor- 
ing coffee-house  and  wufite  the  most  lively,  stinging  pas- 
sages, w^hich  he  w^ould  fit  in  here  and  there  among  more 
level  portions.  All  this  sort  of  wwkmanship  must  have 
been  soon  found  out,  and  no  doubt  impaired  the  w^eight  and 
infiuence  of  his  utterances.  Latterly  he  must  have  been 
listened  to  with  much  the  same  feeling  as  have  been  cer- 


SCENE  IN  COUNTY  WICKLOW,  SHOWING  PART  OF  LOUGH  DAN 


)\ 


-■i 


PERCY  HETEERINGTON  FITZGERALD. 


1193 


tain  licensed  jesters  and  entertainers  of  the  House  in  our 
own  day. 

In  following  him  through  those  varied  contests,  we  are 
struck  by  his  airy  pleasantry;  though  he  is  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  Burke,  who  showed  a higher  sincerity  and  more 
classical  versatility,  and  who  was  terribly  in  earnest 
about  principle,  and  utterly  uncompromising  in  the  small- 
est things.  Sheridan,  on  the  contrary,  we  find  ready 
enough  to  make  some  light  and  airy  retort,  without  much 
regard  as  to  where  he  picked  up  the  weapons;  he  varied 
the  monotony  of  the  contest  by  many  a pleasant  stroke, 
which  must  have  been  amusing  to  the  House. 

Another  remarkable  feature  in  most  of  his  speeches  was 
that  he  seemed  to  speak  with  effect  only  when  making  at- 
tacks on  the  special  objects  of  his  enmity.  One  of  these 
.was  almost  invariably  Mr.  Pitt,  to  whom  he  showed  the 
rancor  that  men  of  loose  life  often  have  against  purists 
whose  character  and  success  are  a rebuke.  Another  was 
Mr.  Dundas — until  he  came  to  defend  himself  as  roughly 
as  he  was  attacked — an  object  of  dislike  whom  Sheridan 
assailed  with  a genuine  vigor  and  venom.  Windham,  too, 
he  did  not  spare.  Indeed,  it  came  at  lavSt  to  this — that 
some  of  his  most  telling  efforts  were  directed  against  his 
own  former  friends,  with  whom  he  had  completely  broken. 

It  will  be  entertaining  to  note,  as  in  the  case  of  Burke, 
the  scenes,  the  disputes  he  so  often  had  with  Mr.  Pitt,  and 
which  were  continued  through  a long  course  of  years. 
These  were  trifiing,  and  certainly  unworthy  of  both,  the 
time  of  the  House  being  taken  up  with  their  frivolous  al- 
tercations. Thus,  when  Pitt  had  once  taunted  him  with 
his  theatrical  pursuits,  Sheridan  retorted  by  a very  un- 
becoming form  of  jest,  which  was  then  in  the  height  of 
popularity — viz.,  sneering  at  his  well-known  regularity  and 
strictness  of  life.  These  insinuations  were  taken  from  the 
satires  of  the  ‘ Kolliad,^  of  which  they  were  the  regular 
stock-in-trade.  As  in  a debate  that  arose  in  May,  1787, 
Sheridan  bitterly  inveighed  against  Pitt,  who,  he  said, 
was  the  real  culprit,  dealing  in  professions,  not  acts,  Pitt 
scornfully  replied  that  he  believed  that  he  (Sheridan)  was 
sincere  in  this  case — i.e.,  in  making  a charge  against  him; 
and  when  it  was  thought  what  a field  for  ingenuity  there 
vWas  in  spreading  calumnies  and  reports  against  him,  it  was 

i8— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1194 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


no  wonder  he  seized  on  this  matter  as  an  excuse.  I am 
glad  he  admits/^  said  Sheridan,  “ that  I generally  speak 
with  sincerity.’’  No,”  said  Mr.  Pitt,  across  the  table; 

not  so ; but  merely  in  what  you  have  said  to-day  against 
me.”  On  which  Sheridan  went  off  into  a rather  rambling 
series  of  charges  as  to  Pitt’s  inconsistency,  his  waste  of 
public  money,  his  bestowing  titles  and  honors  corruptly. 

On  the  whole,”  he  said,  using  the  favorite  sneer,  Mr. 
Pitt  had  always  professed  purity , but  had  acted  with  self- 
attention and  neglect  of  others.” 

Again,  in  March,  1788,  Pitt  glanced  at  Sheridan,  saying 
that  in  most  of  his  speeches  there  was  much  fancy,  in 
many  shining  wit,  in  others  very  ingenious  argument,  in 
all  great  eloquence,  and  in  some  few  truth  and  justice!’ 
Sheridan  said  he  rejected  such  compliments  with  scorn. 
He  insinuated  that  Pitt  was  fond  of  shiftiness.  He  was, 
he  said,  one  of  the  dark,  concealed,  and  secret  band  skulk- 
ing behind  the  throne. 

Next,  on  Pitt’s  announcing  that  he  intended  to  reduce 
the  duties  on  brandies,  Sheridan  taunted  him  with  his  old 
boastings,  that  he  would  put  down  smuggling,”  and  said 
that  all  his  measures  had  failed.  Pitt  replied  that  he 
wondered  which  he  ought  to  admire  most — his  display  of 
confidence  or  his  ignorance.  The  other  retorted  that  he 
was  now  convinced  he  was  right,  from  Pitt’s  showing  him- 
self so  very  angry.  His  behavior  was  not  decent. 

All  through  these  squabbles  we  find  Sheridan  boldly 
criticising  Bank  Acts,  loans,  bullion,  and  topics  of  the 
kind.  In  reference  to  which  Mr.  Tierney  told  Moore  that 
Sheridan  was  generally  wrong  about  financial  matters. 
It  was  certainly  a fine  holiday-time  for  Mr.  Pitt  when  he 
had  no  abler  critic  of  his  financial  schemes  than  Sheridan. 
Pitt,  however,  had  a very  high  idea  of  him,  and  thought 
him,”  Tierney  added,  a far  greater  man  than  Mr.  Fox.” 
In  the  same  spirit  his  friend  Windham  said  of  him  that 
he  was  ignorant  of  almost  every  subject  he  had  to  handle, 
and  manfully  confessed  it.” 

In  May,  1794,  there  was  another  scene,  when  Sheridan 
declared  that  those  seditious  conspiracies  had  no  existence 
save  in  the  foul  hnaginations  of  Ministers.”  On  which 
Pitt  answered  scornfully,  that  this  sort  of  abuse  of  him  had 
been  too  often  repeated  to  have  any  novelty  for  him,  or  to 


PERCY  HETHERINGTON  FITZGERALD,  1195 


be  entitled  to  any  degree  of  importance  either  with  him  or 
his  friends.  Pitt  was  called  on  to  make  an  apology,  which 
he  did,  where  alone  it  is  due, — to  you,  sir,  and  to  the 
House.’’  On  which  Sheridan  angrily  said  this  apology  was 
disorderly,  and  a breach  in  itself  of  order,  as  it  seemed  to 
except  him.  Still,  it  was  no  matter;  for  he  had  received 
his  apology  with  the  same  contempt  with  which  he  had  the 
provocation.  As  to  the  foul  imaginations  ” of  the  Min- 
isters, etc.,  he  repeated  the  words,  for  the  Speaker  had  not 
called  him  to  order  at  the  proper  time.  As  to  Pitt,  he  left 
the  House  to  judge  of  the  manliness  of  the  person  who 
sheltered  himself  in  the  shade  of  his  situation,  and  who 
dealt  in  insinuations  which,  but  for  his  situation,  he  durst 
not  make.  On  such  conduct  he  would  utter  no  comment, 
because  he  knew  there  were  expressions  of  scorn  and  dis- 
dain which  the  House  would  not  permit  him  to  use.  He 
would  now  ask  an  apology  from  Pitt  for  the  provocation 
given  inside  the  House  to  all,  and  he  was  convinced  no 
provocation  tvould  he  given  outside.^^  This  was  certainly 
blustering. 

In  January,  1794,  there  was  yet  another  of  these  alter- 
cations on  pensions,  jobbing,”  etc.,  in  which  Sheridan 
put  himself  forward  to  assail  certain  allowances — among 
others,  some  to  his  own  friends.  He  declared,  however,  it 
was  only  the  system,  not  individuals,  he  was  aiming  at. 
Burke  indignantly  commented  on  this  distinction  be- 
tween the  jobber  and  the  jobbed  ” ; and  after  the  matter  had 
been  shown  to  be  wholly  trivial,  Mr.  Pitt  asked  scornfully, 
“ Would  he  now  persevere  in  saying  that  he  was  only  in- 
fluenced by  good  will  to  the  persons  he  incriminated?  Or 
if  he  did,  could  he  imagine  that  any  one  in  the  House 
would  credit  him?”  Sheridan  was  eagerly  rising,  when 
Fox  interfered,  and  said  that,  in  his  opinion,  founded  on 
experience,  Sheridan  had  as  much  credit  as  Mr.  Pitt.” 
Sheridan  then  said  he  was  glad  he  had  been  prevented 
answering,  as  he  might  have  said  something  unpalatable. 
As  to  the  opinion  of  the  House  of  his  credit,  he  would  not 
venture  to  say  anjdhing;  hut  it  loas  only  in  the  House 
that  Pitt  would  venture  to  tell  him  so.  On  which  Mr. 
Stanley  protested  against  these  personalities;  and  Mr. 
Yorke,  with  excellent  good  sense,  said  it  was  hard  for 
members,  sent  up  from  the  country  to  mind  their  constit- 


1196 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


uents’  business,  to  have  to  listen  to  such  nonsense.” 
Sheridan,  therefore,  who,  in  the  common  Irish  phrase,  had 
blazed,’’  it  was  clear,  was  eager  to  provoke  the  Minister 
to  combat,  as  we  find  from  his  taunts  on  two  or  three  oc- 
casions. 

This  hostility,  however,  was  alternated  with  exercises 
of  an  agreeable  pleasantry.  Thus,  when  Pitt  gravely  pro- 
posed to  levy  a tax  of  a guinea  on  every  horse  starting  for 
a race,  this  recognition  of  sport  was  too  tempting  to  be 
passed  by.  Lord  Surrey,”  says  Wraxall,  who  possessed 
much  racing  knowledge,  advised  him  to  alter  his  tax,  and 
to  substitute  in  its  place  five  pounds  on  the  winning  horse 
of  any  plate  of  fifty  pounds’  value.  The  Minister  instantly 
adopted,  with  many  acknowledgments,  the  Earl’s  sugges- 
tion. Sheridan,  who  sat  close  by  Lord  Surrey,  then  ris- 
ing, after  having  paid  some  compliments  to  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  on  his  dexterity  and  jockeyshipj  observed 
that  whenever  Lord  Surrey  should  next  visit  Newmarket 
his  sporting  companions,  who  would  be  sweated  by  this 
new  tax  of  his  fabrication,  instead  of  commending  his  in- 
genuity, would  probably  exclaim.  Jockey  of  Norfolk,  be  not 
so  bold!  This  convulsed  the  House;  and  even  Pitt,  whose 
features  did  not  always  relax  on  hearing  Sheridan’s  jests, 
however  brilliant  or  apposite  they  might  be,  joined  in  the 
laugh.” 

This  was  a specimen  of  that  spontaneous  gayety  which 
made  him  so  welcome  to  the  House.  He  was  not  always  so 
One  of  his  stock  devices  was  to  make  some  farci- 
cal pleasantry  on  names  of  statesmen;  as  on  Mr.  Bragge: 
“ Brag  is  a good  dog,  but  Holdfast  is  a better ; ” or  when 
pressed  to  name  ” some  one  to  whom  he  was  making  allu- 
sion, he  said  he  could  do  it  as  soon  as  you  could  say  “ Jack 
Robinson.”  Or  he  would  tell  of  one  Paterson,”  who  kept 
a shop  at  Manchester,  and,  having  a tilted  cart  in  use 
for  his  business,  had  the  names  of  Pitt  and  Paterson  ” 
painted  on  the  front  of  it.  This  man,  who  was  known  to 
have  no  partner  in  his  trade,  was  asked  what  he  meant  by 
the  name  of  Pitt  on  his  cart,  as  he  had  no  share  in  the 
business.  ‘‘Ah!”  replied  he,  “he  has  indeed  no  share  in 
the  business;  but  a very  large  share  in  the  profits  of  it.” 
This  seems  a poor  sort  of  wit.  One  who  is  ever  looking  out 


PERCY  HETHERINGTON  FITZGERALD,  1197 


for  some  superficial  allusion  of  this  kind  to  win  a laugh 
,:will  rarely  enjoy  respect. 

Mr.  Moore  has  laid  open  for  us  Sheridan’s  private  labora- 
tory where  he  compounded  his  oratory — the  images,  meta- 
phors, prepared  bursts — the  accurately  marked  places 
where  Good  God,  sir ! ” was  to  come  in.  These  fire- 
, works  ” kept  by  him  for  use  do  not  belong  to  oratory,  whose 
legitimate  imagery  is  inspired  by  the  emotion  of  the 
moment  and  belongs  to  the  occasion.  It  is  extraordinary 
the  difference  of  feeling  found  when  comparing  his  images 
.with  those  of  Burke,  so  genuine,  so  apropos,  so  forcible. 

Burke,”  said  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  abounds  with  these  fine 
passages;  but  no  man  could  ever  perceive  in  him  the  least 
trace  of  preparation,  and  he  never  appears  more  incon- 
testably inspired  by  the  moment,  and  transported  with  the 
fury  of  the  god  within  him,  than  in  those  finished  passages 
which  it  would  cost  even  Shakespeare  long  study  and  labor 
to  produce.” 

On  a superficial  view,  it  is  often  customary  to  class  Sheri- 
dan with  the  statesmen  of  his  period.  Fox,  Burke,  Sheri- 
dan,” etc.,  are  named  together,  as  though  he  had  any 
equally  important  influence  on  the  political  events  of  his 
time. 

But  the  truth,  as  we  have  before  observed,  is  that 
Sheridan  cannot  be  counted  a serious  jwUtician.^^  It 
would  almost  seem  that  he  had  few  convictions.  In  all  the 
abundant  political  memoirs  of  the  time,  of  which  there  are 
scores,  we  rarely  find  his  name  mentioned  as  being  of  ac- 
count at  any  crisis;  though  he  figures  largely  in  schemes, 
and  in  tortuous  intrigues,  or  as  a supposed  adviser  of  an 
illustrious  personage.”  Mr.  Croker  truly  says : How 

many,  after  all,  are  the  events  in  the  public  history  of  Eng- 
land with  which  posterity  will,  in  any  manner  whatever, 
connect  the  name  of  Sheridan?  In  fact,  the  history  of 
England  might  be  written  without  a single  introduction 
of  his  name,  and  in  all  probability  hereafter  it  will  be  so 
written.”  Industrious,  indeed,  he  was  as  a debater,  and 
took  part  in  discussing  all  manner  of  subjects;  but  having 
read  all  these  efforts  carefully,  they  seem  generally  con- 
ceived in  a labored  petty  spirit,  merely  for  the  embarrass- 
ment of  some  Minister;  or  that  he  had  got  up  ” his  facts 
without  having  any  particular  interest  in  the  question. 


1198 


IRI^H  LITERATURE, 


And  in  this  estimate  of  Sheridan  as  a politician  we  must 
not  overlook  the  fact  that  in  those  times  of  strict  party 
spirit  we  always  find  him  somehow  estranged  from  mem- 
bers of  his  party,  following  the  guide  of  his  own  interest 
and  fighting  for  his  own  hand.  The  reason  seems  to  be  that 
unhappily  he  was  ever  pressed  with  debts  and  difficulties, 
now  surmounting  them,  now  overpowered  by  them ; a strug- 
gle which  is  certain  to  lend  a shifting  tone  to  political 
views.  It  is  difficult  indeed  for  a man  thus  harassed  to 
take  up  Spartan  or  heroic  principles.  This  end,  with  so 
impulsive  a character,  seemed  more  likely  to  be  gained  by 
devotion  to  a person  of  such  infiuence  as  was  the  Prince 
of  Wales  and  Kegent,  than  in  barren  service  to  the  abstract 
principles  of  a party  whose  coming  to  power  seemed  hope- 
less; nor  was  it  likely  that  a man  pressed  and  straitened 
by  debt,  and  notorious  for  the  shifts  and  devices  by  which 
he  strove  to  release  himself  from  embarrassments,  would 
be  likely  to  be  over  scrupulous  in  matters  of  party. 


WILLIAM  JOHN  FITZPATRICK. 


(1830—1895.) 

“The  modern  Suetonius,”  as  the  lively  writer  of  ‘Recollections 
of  Dublin  Castle,’  calls  W.  J.  Fitzpatrick,  “ was,”  he  says,  “ perpet- 
ually groping  among  old  papers,  letters,  and  the  like,  and  discover- 
ing awkward  secrets.  He  would  tell  you  in  a cozy  way,  and  in  his 
high  treble : ‘ I have  just  purchased  a number  of  curious  docu- 
ments, in  one  of  which  there  is  a curious  transaction  relating  to 
your  grandfather.  Did  you  ever  know  that  he  had  a salary  from 
the  Government  to  act  as  spy,  etc.  ? I have  all  the  documents.’  ” 

He  certainly  was  an  industrious  student  of  his  day  of  the  careers 
of  illustrious  Irishmen,  and  one  of  the  best  authorities  on  the  social 
life  of  the  past  in  Ireland. 

He  was  born  Aug.  31,  1830,  and  was  educated  at  Clongowes 
Wood  College.  His  first  work  of  any  importance  was  ‘ The  Life, 
Times,  and  Correspondence  of  Dr.  Doyle’  G861).  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  a biography  of  Lord  Cloncurry,  and  a work  in  defense 
of  Lady  Morgan  entitled  ‘ The  Friends,  Foes,  and  Adventures  of 
Lady  Morgan,’ to  which  there  came  a sequel,  ‘Lady  Morgan,  her 
Career,  Literary  and  Personal.’  ‘Anecdotal  Memoirs  of  Archbishop 
Whately  ’ next  appeared;  and  this  was  followed  by  ‘Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald  and  his  Betrayers’  (1869).  ‘ Ireland  before  the  Union’ 

appeared  in  1870,  and  was  succeeded  by  a volume  of  even  greater 
historical  value,  entitled  ‘ The  Sham  Squire  and  the  Informers  of 
1798.’  The  description  of  this  remarkable  figure  in  the  history  of 
Ireland  is  brought  out  clearly,  and  the  whole  story  is  a striking  pic- 
ture of  the  state  of  society  at  the  troubled  period  immediately  before 
and  after  the  Act  of  Union.  In  1873  a volume  of  pleasant  gossip 
under  the  title  of  ‘ Irish  Wits  and  Worthies,  including  Dr.  Lanigan,’ 
was  published;  a life  of  Lever  also  came  from  his  pen.  He 
wrote  ‘ Historical  Discoveries  of  the  Days  of  Tone  and  Emmet,’  and 
was  a frequent  contributor  to  periodical  literature.  His  books  make 
a long  list,  but  one  of  the  most  important  was  ‘ The  Secret  Service 
under  Pitt,’  and  the  most  curious  perhaps  was  a pamphlet  claiming 
for  Thomas  Scott,  the  brother  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  chief  credit 
for  a large  part  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  He  was  a member  of  the 
Royal  Irish  Academy  and  of  the  Dublin  Royal  Society.  He  died  in 
1895. 

ANECDOTES  OF  KEOGH,  THE  IRISH  MASSILLON. 

From  ‘ Irish  Wits  and  Worthies.’ 

That  love  of  hospitable  and  convivial  pleasure  character- 
istic of  the  old  school  of  Irish  priesthood,  and  which  our 
historian  sought  to  vindicate  against  the  aspersions  of 

1199 


1200 


IRI^H  LITERATURE, 


Giraldus  Cambrensis,  was  not  only  illustrated  in  Lanigan’s 
own  idiosyncracy,  but  in  that  of  his  friend,  the  Kev.  M.  B. 
Keogh,  as  well.  The  latter  was  hospitable  to  a fault,  and 
would  almost  coin  his  heart  into  gold  to  give  away;  while 
legitimate  creditors,  as  is  often  the  fashion  with  literary 
men,  w’ere  invariably  left  unpaid.  A merchant  to  wiiom 
Mr.  Keogh  was  indebted,  knowing  that  he  w^ould  have  no 
chance  of  settlement  if  directly  applied  for,  appealed  to 
him  with  the  representation  that,  as  he  was  in  great  dif- 
ficulties a pecuniary  loan  w^ould  be  specially  acceptable. 
The  preacher  replied  that  he  could  not  give  it  just  then, 
but  if  the  applicant  w^ould  come  and  dine  with  him  on  the 
following  Sunday  he  w^ould  try  meanwhile  to  make  out  the 
loan  for  him  somehow  or  another.  The  money  wms  duly 
produced,  and  the  merchant,  full  of  expressions  of  grati- 
tude, reminding  him  of  his  old  claim,  returned  the  over- 
plus to  Father  Keogh,  w^ho  henceforth  regarded  him  with 
feelings  not  altogether  paternal. 

As  a natural  consequence  of  the  perverse  principle  w^hich 
he  cultivated,  Father  Keogh  w^as  constantly  in  debt  and 
difficulties.  One  day,  wffien  disrobing  after  delivering  a 
charity  sermon  in  Whitefriar  Street  Chapel,  where  a vast 
crowM  had  congregated  to  hear  him  surpass  himself,  two 
bailiffs  stalked  into  the  sacristy,  and  placing  him  in  a cov- 
ered car  drove  off  in  triumph.  Dr.  Spratt  good-naturedly 
accompanied  his  friend,  and  as  they  neared  the  sheriff’s 
prison  one  of  the  officers,  pulling  out  a pistol,  said : Father 

Keogh,  I know  your  popularity,  and  in  case  you  appeal  to 
the  mob,  I draw  the  trigger.”  The  idol  of  the  people  sub- 
mitted to  his  fate  wuth  the  desperate  resignation  he  had  so 
often  inculcated  in  his  sermons,  and  turning  to  Dr.  Spratt 
said : My  dear  friend,  I am  arrested  at  the  suit  evidently 

of  B , the  coach-maker.  Go  to  him  and  arrange  it.” 

The  good  priest  did  as  requested,  and  returned  to  the  prison 
with  a receipt  in  full,  which  he  considered  equivalent  to 
an  order  for  the  liberation  of  his  friend.  But  the  docu- 
ment proved  futile;  it  turned  out  that  Mr.  Keogh  wms  ar~ 
rested  at  the  suit  of  an  utterly  different  creditor,  and  the 
glee  of  the  coach-maker,  who  never  expected  to  be  paid,  w^as 
only  equaled  by  Mr.  Keogh’s  dismay. 

The  late  Rev.  J.  Lalor,  P.P.  of  Athy,  the  former  coad- 
jutor of  Father  Keogh  at  Baldoyle,  used  to  tell  that  his 


WILLIAM  ^JOEH  FITZPATRICK. 


1201 


curates,  as  they  could  never  get  one  farthing  from  him, 
were  generally  most  shabbily  clad,  and  tried  to  console 
themselves  by  the  reflection  that  in  this  respect  they  re- 
sembled our  Lord’s  disciples,  who  were  sent  without  scrip 
or  staff.  Mr.  Lalor,  at  last  losing  patience,  reefed  the  knee 
of  his  small-clothes^  and  furnished  with  this  startling  argu- 
ment waited  upon  the  pastor  and  claimed  the  price  of  a 
new  one.  “ My  dear  fellow,”  was  the  reply,  I have  not 
a farthing  in  the  wwld;  but  if  you  go  into  that  dressing- 
room  yonder  you  may  take  your  choice  of  four.” 

The  late  Dr.  M 1 was  in  the  habit  of  paying  Father 

Keogh,  when  in  delicate  health,  a visit  every  Wednesday, 
and  remaining  to  dine  with  him.  One  evening  the  doctor 
drank  more  than  freely,  and  advised  no  end  of  draughts 
of  less  palatable  flavor.  When  taking  leave,  Mr.  Keogh 
placed  a crumpled  paper  in  his  hand.  The  doctor’s  knock 
was  heard  betimes  next  morning.  I called,”  said  he,  to 
represent  a slight  mistake.  Only  fancy,  you  gave  me  an 
old  permit  instead  of  a note.”  The  reply  was  cool : “ You 
cannot  carry  more  than  a certain  amount  of  whisky  with- 
out a permit;  I saw  that  you  had  exceeded  the  proper 
quantum.”  Father  Michael  Keogh’s  powers  of  sarcasm, 
often  most  capriciously  and  dyspeptically  exercised,  were 
withering.  A priest  who  had  formerly  been  a Jesuit  was 
lionized  at  a dinner  where  Mr.  Keogh  was  present.  I 
think,  sir,”  he  exclaimed  from  the  end  of  the  table,  “you 
were  a Jesuit,  but  have  since  left  the  order.”  A stiff  bow 
was  the  reply.  “Judas  was  also  in  the  society  of  Jesus,” 
proceeded  his  tormentor,  “ but  he  took  the  cord  and  died 
a Franciscan.” 

But  Father  Keogh’s  forte,  after  pulpit  oratory,  was  rare 
powders  of  histrionic  mimicry.  He  was  once  invited  by  the 
late  good  though  eccentric  pastor  of  Duleek  to  preach  a 
charity  sermon.  After  delivering  a pow’^erful  appeal,  which 
melted  many  of  the  audience  to  tears.  Father  Keogh  pro- 
ceeded to  read  aloud  some  papers,  containing  parochial 
announcements,  wdiich  the  parish  priest  had  placed  in  his 
hands  for  that  purpose.  But  the  most  illiterate  member 
of  the  assembled  flock  at  once  perceived  that  Mr.  Keogh,  by 
his  tone  and  gesture,  w^as  mimicking  the  peculiarities  of 
their  primitive  pastor.  The  latter  w^as  not  slow  in  recog- 
nizing his  own  portrait,  and  starting  up  from  a seat  of 


1202 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


honor  which  he  occupied  beneath  the  pulpit,  exclaimed: 
You  Dublin  jackeen,  was  it  for  this  I invited  you  to 
Duleek?'' 

How  an  ecclesiastic,  whose  brow  when  engaged  in  de- 
livering a divine  message  seemed  not  unsuited  for  the 
miter,  could  sometimes  suffer  the  cap  and  bells  to  usurp  its 
place  can  be  accounted  for  in  no  other  way  than  that 
vagaries  of  this  sort  formed  part  of  the  eccentricity  of  his 
high  genius.  He  had  a keen  eye  to  detect  the  weaknesses 
or  absurdities  of  his  neighbor,  but  was  utterly  blind  to  his 
own.  In  hearing  these  anecdotes  of  this  remarkable  Irish- 
man— which  are  now  told  publicly  for  the  first  time — it  is 
difficult  to  associate  them  with  one  whose  prestige  was  of 
the  most  brilliant  and  exalted  character.  Since  Dean  Kir- 
wan  preached,  there  had  not  appeared  a more  irresistible 
or  impressive  pulpit  orator.  Hundreds  of  Protestants 
daily  attended  his  controversial  sermons ; and  we  have 
heard  them  say  that  it  was  a rare  treat  to  hear  Father 
Keogh  answering  in  the  evening  the  polemical  propositions 
enunciated  from  the  pulpit  by  the  Kev.  Mortimer  O’Sulli- 
van in  the  morning.  He  was  entitled  to  the  receipts  taken 
at  some  of  these  evening  sermons.  Father  Murphy,  his 
prior,  handed  him  on  one  of  these  occasions  £2  10s.  I 
viewed  the  congregation,’^  said  Mr.  Keogh,  and  there  was 
more  than  £4  10s.  present.”  Granted,”  replied  his  supe- 
rior, but  you  owe  me  £2  for  ten  years,  and  I had  no  other 
means  of  getting  paid.”  Those  wlio  know  me,”  observed 
Dr.  Willis,  in  a communication  to  the  author,  are  aware 
that  I never  was  given  to  weeping,  especially  in  my  younger 
days;  but  I do  declare  that  during  a course  of  Lenten  ser- 
mons in  Church  Street,  Keogh  had  every  one  of  the  congre- 
gation in  tears,  including  myself,  whom  he  had  so  often 
previously,  in  private,  convulsed  with  laughter.” 

The  old  magazine  from  which  an  extract  has  been  al- 
ready culled  opens  with  an  elaborate  sketch  of  the  Rev. 
M.  B.  Keogh : The  practice  of  extemporary  preaching, 

so  judiciously  encouraged  or  enforced  by  the  Church  of 
Rome,”  it  states,  is  admirably  calculated  to  call  forth  the 
powers  and  the  resources  of  such  a mind  as  Mr.  Keogh’s. 
He  is  evidently  of  a quick  and  ardent  temperament,  swayed 
by  sudden  impulse,  and  often,  in  the  hurrying  moment  of 
excitement,  carried  beyond  himself  by  a species  of  inspira- 


WILLIAM  JOHN  FITZPATRICK, 


1203 


tion.  To  tie  down  such  a man  to  his  notes  would  be  to  ex- 
tinguish half  his  enthusiasm;  it  would  be  a sort  of  intel- 
lectual sacrilege — an  insult  to  the  majesty  of  genius.’’  Mr. 
Keogh’s  success  as  a preacher  was  not  due  to  commanding 
appearance,  for,  like  Curran’s,  it  seems  to  have  been  far 
from  prepossessing.  He  had  the  same  powers  of  mind  and 
eye  as  Curran,  who  was  wont  to  observe  that  it  cost  him 
half-an-hour  longer  to  reach  the  hearts  of  the  jury  than  it 
would  have  taken  a less  repulsive-featured  man  with  the 
same  arguments.  “ See  him  in  the  season  of  Lent,”  observes 
a contemporary  critic,  for,  probably,  the  fortieth  time, 
standing  unrobed  before  the  unornamented  altar,  without 
text,  form,  or  genuflexion,  starting  solemnly  but  abruptly 
upon  his  subject.  Mark  the  extending  of  his  arm,  the 
penetrating  glance  of  his  kindled  eye;  hear  his  deep, 
mellow,  and  impressive  tones;  listen  to  his  rich,  impas- 
sioned, spirit-stirring  diction,  and  then  say,  if  you  can, 
that  you  feel  the  absence  of  flne  features,  courtly  manners, 
or  commanding  stature.”  And  yet  we  are  not  aware  that 
the  sermons  of  this  great  orator  exist  in  any  accessible 
form.  Nor  is  the  loss,  perhaps,  as  great  as  might  at  flrst 
sight  be  supposed.  As  in  the  case  of  Dean  Kirwan — whose 
printed  sermons  are  unworthy  of  his  high  reputation — the 
great  effect  of  Father  Keogh’s  pulpit  oratory  seems,  on 
post  mortem  examination,  due  rather  to  the  manner  than 
the  matter.  Dr.  Spratt,  having  got  a discourse  of  his  re- 
ported, presented  him  with  the  proof-sheets  for  correction ; 
but,  although  accurately  taken  down,  Mr.  Keogh  would  not 
believe  that  he  had  delivered  it  in  that  form,  and,  fllled  with 
di,!>gust,  tore  up  the  sheets  and  irrevocably  canceled  the 
sermon. 

Mr.  Keogh,  during  his  hours  of  relaxation,  exhibited  all 
the  exuberance  of  a liberated  school-boy  on  the  playground. 
A gentleman,  who  we  fear  played  cards  rather  for  profit 
than  pleasure,  having  one  evening  at  Raheny  pocketed 
pool  after  pool  with  complacent  rapacity,  at  last,  having 
secured  an  unusually  large  haul,”  suddenly  stood  up  and 
declared  it  was  time  to  leave.  Keogh,  with  the  utmost 
good  humor,  replied  that  it  was  too  early  to  break  up,  and 
that  he  should  give  his  host  and  friends  an  opportunity  of 
retrieving  their  losses.  But  the  man  of  lucre,  with  pleas- 
ant banter,  extricated  himself  from  the  playful  collar- 


1204 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


ing ’’  of  his  friends;  and  just  as  he  had  reached  the  hali, 
Fr.  Keogh  caught  him  in  his  muscular  grip,  and,  turning 
him  upside  down,  the  entire  contents  of  his  pockets  fell  in 
a loud  avalanche  to  the  ground.  The  money  was  gathered 
up,  the  gamester  returned,  and  the  play  continued  with 
varying  success  until  a later  hour.  This  anecdote  was  told 
by  the  butler  of  the  house,  who  at  least  was  a considerable 
gainer  by  the  incident. 

An  idle  brain  is  the  deviPs  workshop,^’  was  an  apo- 
thegm of  his  own  concoction,  which  his  audience  heard  him 
utter  more  than  once.  Two  other  favorite  expressions  of 
his  were,  tinseled  vanity  and  feathered  foppery,^^  and 
he  declared  inextinguishable  war  against  both.  Like  Cur- 
ran, Moore,  and  other  great  contemporaries,  Mr.  Keogh^s 
origin  was  humble.  He  never  shrank  from  avowing  it 
manfully,  and,  we  rather  think,  used  those  avowals  as 
physic  to  purge  the  pride  engendered  by  public  adulation. 
The  father  of  the  Irish  Massillon  was  a coffin-maker  in 
Cook  Street.^  A friend  asked  him  one  day,  How  is  your 
father?  Oh,^^  replied  Keogh  with  a very  long  visage, 

I left  him  working  for  death ! 

Nevertheless,  the  sire  saw  the  son  down;  and  his  death 
occurred  under  the  following  circumstances.  In  attempt- 
ing to  attain  an  almost  celestial  degree  of  perfection  as 
deliverer  of  divine  messages,  he  sank  from  Scylla  into  the 
jaws  of  Charybdis.  Somewhat  erroneously  supposing  that 
his  articulation  was  not  quite  as  distinct  as  formerly,  he 
desired  a dentist  to  pull  out  all  his  front  teeth,  and  to  in- 
sert a false  set  in  their  room.  Dental  science  was  not  then 
in  its  prime — the  cure  proved  far  worse  than  the  disease. 
The  clumsy  tusks  which  had  been  substituted  for  nature’s 
teeth  obstructed  rather  than  facilitated  the  flow  of  his 
oratory ; but,  still  worse,  they  refused  to  perform  the  office 
of  mastication.  Dyspepsia,  with  a hundred  other  ills,  were 
fostered  in  this  way,  and  Mr.  Keogh  rapidly  sank  beneath 
their  sapping  influence.  One  of  his  last  letters,  written 
from  his  father’s  house  in  Cook  Street,  where  he  died,  was 

1 Mr.  Keogli  worked  at  the  trade  for  a time  himself.  He  used  to  say 
that  when  people  faulted  coffins,  because  of  unsightly  knots  in  the  wood, 
he  would  reply  : “ Oh,  I can  hide  them  with  an  angel  or  two.”  Father 
Keogh  inherited  his  talent  from  his  mother,  who  kept  a school.  He  was 
such  an  apt  scholar  that  the  usual  period  for  theological  study  was  con- 
siderably abridged  in  his  favor. 


WILLIAM  JOHN  FITZPATRICK. 


1205 


addressed  to  Dr.  Spratt,  begging  bis  prayers.  But  . . . 
Keogh  also  had  his  joke  at  that  solemn  hour.  A priest,  fa- 
mous for  following  the  fox-hounds,  having  paid  him  a visit, 
Keogh  in  a voice  hardly  audible  muttered,  Ah,  Father 
John,  you  were  always  in  at  the  death.’^  Mr.  Keogh  did  not 
long  survive  his  friend  Dr.  Lanigan.  He  died  9th  Septem- 
ber, 1831,  aged  forty-three  years.  A tablet  to  his  memory, 
inscribed  with  a very  eulogistic  epitaph,  is  erected  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  Baldojde;  but  his  remains  repose 
in  the  vaults  of  SS.  Michael  and  John,  Exchange  Street, 
Dublin. 


ELLEN  FITZSIMON. 


(1805—1883.) 

Ellen  O’Connell,  the  eldest  of  the  daughters  of  Daniel  O’Connell, 
all  remarkable  both  for  beauty  and  for  accomplishments,  was  born 
in  Dublin  Nov.  12,  1805.  She  married  the  late  Christopher  Fitzsi- 
mon,  M.P.,  of  Clencullen,  County  Dublin.  In  1863  she  published 
‘ Derrynane  Abbey,’  and  about  1876  she  began  to  write  ‘ Recollec- 
tions of  my  Father  and  his  Times,’  but  she  did  not  live  to  finish  it. 
She  contributed  poems  to  The  Citizen^  The  Nation^  Duffy's  Fireside 
Magazine^  etc.,  over  the  signature  “ L.  N.  F.” 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT  IN 
AMERICA. 

OR  THE  WOODS  OF  CAILLINO. 

My  heart  is  heavy  in  my  breast,  my  ears  are  full  of  tears, 

My  memory  is  wandering  back  to  long  departed  years, — 

To  those  bright  days  long,  long  ago. 

When  naught  I dreamed  of  sordid  care  or  worldly  woe. 

But  roamed,  a gay,  light-hearted  boy,  the  woods  of  Caillino. 

There,  in  the  spring-time  of  my  life  and  spring-time  of  the  year, 
I ’ve  watched  the  snowdrop  start  from  earth,  the  first  young 
buds  appear. 

The  sparkling  stream  o’er  pebbles  flow. 

The  modest  violet  and  golden  primrose  grow. 

Within  thy  deep  and  mossy  dells,  beloved  Caillino. 

’T  was  there  I wooed  my  Mary  Dhuv  and  won  her  for  my  bride. 
Who  bore  me  three  fair  daughters  and  four  sons,  my  age’s 
pride ; 

Though  cruel  fortune  was  our  foe. 

And  steeped  us  to  the  lips  in  bitter  want  and  woe. 

Yet  cling  our  hearts  to  those  sad  days  we  passed  near  Caillino. 

At  length,  by  misery  bowed  to  earth,  we  left  our  native  strand. 
And  crossed  the  wide  Atlantic  to  this  free  and  happy  land ; 
Though  toils  we  had  to  undergo, 

Yet  soon  content  and  happy  peace ’t  was  ours  te  know. 

And  plenty  such  as  never  blessed  our  hearts,  near  Caillino, 

1206 


ELLEN  FITZSIMON. 


1207 


And  Heaven  a blessing  has  bestowed  more  precious  far  than 
wealth, 

Has  spared  us  to  each  other,  full  of  years,  yet  strong  in  health ; 
Across  the  threshold  when  we  go. 

We  see  our  children's  children  round  us  grow. 

Like  sapling  oaks  within  thy  woods,  far  distant  Caillino. 

Yet  sadness  clouds  our  hearts  to  think  that,  when  we  are  no 
more. 

Our  bones  must  find  a resting  place  far,  far  from  Erin^s  shore; 
For  us,  no  funeral,  sad  and  slow. 

Within  the  ancient  abbey^s  burial  mound  will  go, — 

No,  we  must  slumber  far  from  home,  far,  far  from  Caillino. 

Yet,  O,  if  spirits  e’er  can  leave  the  appointed  place  of  rest, 
Once  more  will  I revisit  thee,  dear  Isle  that  T love  best! 

O’er  thy  green  vales  will  hover  slow, 

And  many  a tearful  parting  blessing  will  bestow 
On  all, — but  most  of  all,  on  thee^  beloved  Oailliao! 


RICHARD  FLECKNOE. 


( 1678.) 

Richard  Flecknoe,  poet  and  dramatic  writer,  lived  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  II.  He  was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  and  was  originally  a 
priest  of  the  Order  of  Jesus.  Flecknoe  owes  the  rescue  of  his  name 
from  oblivion  to  the  satirical  genius  of  Dry  den.  The  satirist  availed 
himself  of  Flecknoe’s  name  as  a stalking-horse  from  behind  which 
to  assail  the  poetaster  Shadwell,  who  had  been  appointed  to  replace 
him  in  the  laureateship.  The  opening  lines  of  this  satire  may  be 
quoted  as  a specimen  of  the  whole: — 

“ All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay  ; 

And  when  fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 

This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed  long  ; 

In  prose  and  verse  was  owned  without  dispute 
Throughout  the  realms  of  nonsense  absolute.” 

It  is  but  fair,  however,  to  remark  that,  clever  and  effective  as 
this  poem  is,  it  is  in  its  application  to  Flecknoe  utterly  unjust. 
Flecknoe  was  a considerable  traveler.  He  went  to  Lisbon  about 
1643,  where  he  remained  some  time.  From  Lisbon,  in  1646,  he 
made  a voyage  to  Brazil,  and  on  his  return  in  1650  he  wrote  his 
* Travels  of  Ten  Years  in  Europe,  Asia,  Afrique,  and  America.’ 
Flecknoe  was  the  author  of  several  plays,  only  one  of  which, 
‘Love’s  Dominion,’  printed  in  1654,  was  acted.  This  piece  was 
republished  in  1674  as  ‘ Love’s  Kingdom,’  a pastoral  tragi-comedy. 
This  was  not  the  play  as  acted,  but  as  rewritten  and  corrected. 
His  minor  pieces  contain  many  happy  turns  of  thought  and  felici- 
ties of  expression.  His  ‘ Damoiselles  a la  Mode,’  printed  in  1677  and 
addressed  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  and  ‘ Sir  W. 
Davenant’s  Voyage  to  the  Other  World’  are  witty  exposures  of  the 
literary  and  dramatic  foibles  of  the  day.  His  unpopularity  among 
the  players,  and  the  satire  of  Dryden,  upon  whom,  nevertheless, 
Flecknoe  composed  a witty  and  graceful  epigram,  must  have  been 
in  a great  measure  owing  to  his  attacks  on  the  immorality  and  gen- 
eral worthlessness  of  the  English  stage.  An  interesting  but  almost 
unknown  production  of  Flecknoe’s  is  ‘ The  Idea  of  His  Highness 
Oliver,  late  Lord  Protector,’  etc.,  London,  1659 — an  appreciative 
estimate  of  Cromwell’s  character,  as  evidenced  in  his  Parliamentary 
career  and  his  achievements  as  soldier  and  statesman.  He  also 
wrote  ‘ Ermina,  or  the  Chaste  Lady,’  ‘ The  Marriage  of  Oceanus 
and  Britannia,’  ‘Epigrams  and  Enigmatical  Characters,’ 1670,  in 
8vo  ; ‘ Miscellanea,’  or  poems  of  all  sorts,  with  divers  other  pieces, 
1653,  in  12mo;  ‘Diarium,  or  the  Journal,’  divided  into  twelve 
Jornadas,  in  burlesque  verse,  London,  1656,  in  12mo  ; and  ‘ Dis- 
course of  the  English  Stage.’  Flecknoe  died  in  1678. 

1208 


RICHARD  FLECKNOE. 


1209 


OF  DRINKING. 

The  fountains  drink  caves  subterren, 

The  rivulets  drink  the  fountains  dry; 
Brooks  drink  those  rivulets  again, 

And  them  some  river  gliding  by; 

Until  some  gulping  sea  drink  them, 

And  ocean  drinks  up  that  again. 

Of  ocean  then  does  drink  the  sky; 

When  having  brewed  it  into  rain. 

The  earth  with  drink  it  does  supply. 

And  plants  do  drink  up  that  again. 
When  turned  to  liquor  in  the  vine, 

’T  is  our  turn  next  to  drink  the  wine. 

By  this  who  does  not  plainly  see. 

How  into  our  throats  at  once  is  hurled — 
Whilst  merrily  we  drinking  be — 

The  quintessence  of  all  the  world? 
Whilst  all  drink  then  in  land,  air,  sea, 
Let  us  too  drink  as  wdl  as  they. 


ON  TRAVEL. 

It  is  not  travel  makes  the  man,  ’t  is  true. 

Unless  a man  could  travel,  sir,  like  you. 

By  putting  off  the  worst  and  putting  on 
The  best  of  every  country  where  they  come; 

Their  language,  manners,  fashions,  and  their  use. 
Purged  from  the  dross,  and  stript  from  the  abuse. 
Until  at  last  in  manners  they  become 
New  men  and  creatures  at  their  coming  home; 
W^hilst  your  pied  traveler,  who  nothing  knows 
Of  other  countries^  fashions  but  their  clothes. 
And  speaks  their  language  but  as  parrots  do. 

Only  at  best  a broken  word  or  two. 

Goes  and  returns  the  same  he  went  again. 

By  carrying  England  still  along  with  him; 

Or  else  returns  far  worse  by  bringing  home 
The  worst  of  every  land  where  he  does  come. 


HENRY  FLOOD. 


(1732—1791.) 

Henry  Flood,  one  of  the  bright  stars  in  the  constellation  of 
Irish  orators  which  shone  in  the  eighteenth  century,  was  born 
in  1732,  in  the  family  mansion  near  Kilkenny.  He  was  the  son  of 
the  Right  Hon.  Warden  Flood,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Court  of  King’s 
Bench  in  Ireland.  He  was  early  sent  to  school,  on  leaving  which 
he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  stayed  but  a short  time, 
and  about  1749  was  sent  to  Oxford. 

In  1760  he  returned  to  Ireland  and  took  his  seat  in  the  Irish 
House  of  Commons  as  member  for  Kilkenny,  his  native  county,  a 
seat  which  he  exchanged  for  that  of  Callan,  in  the  same  county,  in 
the  new  Parliament  of  1761.  At  the  time  of  his  entrance  on 
political  life  bribery  and  corruption  were  rife,  and  the  House  was 
so  much  under  the  control  of  the  British  Government  that  its  in- 
dependence was  only  in  name.  Flood  took  a bold  stand  against  this 
state  of  affairs,  and  formed  a party  which  advocated  the  freedom 
of  the  Irish  Parliament  and  sought  to  overthrow  the  prevailing  sys- 
tem of  bribery.  He  became  eminently  distinguished  for  his  elo- 
quence, and  for  the  zeal  and  perseverance  with  which  he  advocated 
every  measure  that  he  regarded  as  beneficial  to  his  country. 

He  endeavored  to  obtain  the  repeal  of  a law  dating  from  the 
time  of  Henry  VII.,  called  Poynings’  law,  by  which  the  British 
Government  had  the  power  of  altering  or  rejecting  all  the  bills  of 
the  Irish  legislature.  He  succeeded  in  carrying  the  Octennial  bill, 
by  which  the  duration  of  any  Parliament  was  limited  to  eight  years, 
a reform  which  was  considered  of  great  political  advantage  to  Ire- 
land ; and  he  strenuously  advocated  the  establishment  of  a native 
militia  in  Ireland  as  a balance  against  the  presence  of  a standing 
army.  After  leading  the  Opposition  for  some  years.  Flood  changed 
his  tactics,  alternately  supporting  or  opposing  the  measures  brought 
forward  by  successive  administrations  up  to  1780,  as  he  considered 
them  beneficial  or  otherwise  ; and  this  line  of  conduct  no  doubt 
frequently  drew  upon  him  the  charge  of  political  inconsistency.  In 
1774  he  had  accepted  the  lucrative  post  of  one  of  the  Vice-Treasurers 
of  Ireland,  but  it  was  only  on  condition  of  maintaining  his  principles, 
and  when  he  found  this  no  longer  possible  he  resigned  in  1781,  and 
appeared  once  more  as  the  opponent  of  the  Government.  But  the  old 
fervor  of  his  eloquence,  so  long  dormant,  seemed  slow  to  rouse,  and 
he  is  said  never  to  have  spoken  again  with  the  power  he  had  shown 
in  earlier  days. 

There  were  now  two  leaders  of  the  opposition  in  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons,  and  the  natural  result  ensued.  Flood  and  Grattan  quar- 
reled ; the  more  violent  of  the  party  sided  with  Flood,  the  more 
moderate  with  Grattan,  and  several  passages  of  arms  took  place  in 
the  House.  One  of  these  occurred  in  1783,  and  was  carried  to  a de- 
gree of  animosity  seldom  equaled.  Grattan,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
Flood,  exclaimed  : “You  have  great  talents,  but  you  have  infa- 

1210 


HENRY  FLOOD, 


121! 


mously  sold  them  ! for  years  you  have  kept  silence  that  you  might 
make  gain  ! I declare  before  your  country,  before  the  whole  world, 
before  yourself,  that  you  are  a dishonest  man  ! ” Flood  replied,  but 
such  was  the  strain  of  his  invective  that  the  Speaker  interfered,  and 
only  allowed  his  justification  to  be  made  several  days  later. 

The  party  adhering  to  Grattan  gradually  gained  ascendency,  and 
Flood  turned  his  thoughts  to  England.  Through  the  infiuence  of 
the  Duke  of  Chandos  he  became  Member  for  Winchester,  and  took 
his  seat  in  the  British  House  of  Commons  in  December,  1783.  Owing 
to  the  reputation  which  he  had  acquired  in  Ireland,  great  things 
were  expected  from  him.  But  his  first  appearance  proved  a failure 
which  ever  after  crippled  him.  Entering  the  House  toward  the  end 
of  an  important  debate  on  Mr.  Fox’s  East  India  bill,  and  when  tired 
by  a long  journey,  he  was  imprudent  enough  to  attempt  to  speak 
on  a subject  of  which  at  the  very  outset  he  confessed  himself  ignorant. 
His  vigor  failed  him  ; his  speech  was  tedious  and  awkward  in  de- 
livery, though  correct  enough  in  diction  ; his  eloquence  seemed 
utterly  to  have  left  him,  and  he  could  only  produce  dry,  worn-out  ar- 
guments, based  on  general  principles,  and  noton  warm,  living  facts. 

Before  he  had  time  to  recover  his  reputation,  a dissolution  of 
Parliament  took  place,  and,  the  Duke  of  Chandos  refusing  his  sup- 
port, Flood  betook  himself  to  the  borough  of  Seaford.  In  the  new 
Parliament  he  made  several  weighty  and  successful  speeches,  and 
was  fast  acquiring  a good  position  in  the  House,  when  in  1790  he 
made  the  false  move  of  introducing  a reform  bill.  The  time  was 
most  inopportune,  as  revolution  and  not  reform  was  what  was  hoped 
for  on  one  side  and  feared  on  the  other.  As  a consequence  the  two 
great  parties  combined  against  him  at  the  next  election,  and  he  was 
left  without  a seat.  Stung  to  the  quick,  and  suffering  at  the  same 
time  from  an  attack  of  gout,  he  retired  to  his  estate  of  Farmley  near 
Elilkenny.  At  this  place  a fire  broke  out,  and,  though  still  suffering 
from  illness,  in  the  excitement  he  exposed  himself  and  was  attacked 
by  pleurisy,  which  carried  him  off  on  the  2d  of  December,  1791. 

He  had  married  Lady  Frances  Beresford  in  1763,  a lady  who 
brought  him  fortune  as  well  as  a wide  and  influential  connection. 
In  1769,  while  Member  for  Callan,  he  had  an  unfortunate  dispute 
with  his  colleague,  Mr.  Agar,  and  in  a duel  which  ensued  the  latter 
was  killed.  For  this  Flood  was  tried  and  acquitted  at  the  spring 
assizes  of  1770  in  Kilkenny.  By  his  will  he  bequeathed  property 
to  the  value  of  £5,000  ($25,000)  to  the  University  of  Dublin,  but 
this  bequest  was  ultimately  set  aside  by  an  appeal  to  the  law  of  mort- 
main. 

As  an  orator  Flood  has  been  highly  praised  by  his  friends  as  he 
has  been  fiercely  blamed  by  his  enemies  ; but  there  must  have  been 
no  small  charm  in  his  eloquence  when  it  made  his  audience  forget 
his  rasping  voice  and  irritating  habit  of  lowering  it  at  the  end  of  his 
sentences.  However  famous  h^e  was  in  his  native  Parliament,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  there  soon  overshadowed  by  the  tower- 
ing figure  of  Grattan,  between  whom  and  Flood  there  were  few  things 
in  common.  Grattan’s  moving  power  was  an  enthusiastic  love  of 
country  and  a poetic  nature,  while  Flood’s  was  to  a great  extent 
vanity,  although  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  a warm  and  un- 


1212 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


deviating  lover  of  truth  and  honesty.  While  at  Oxford  he  wrote  a 
poem  on  the  death  of  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  one  stanza  of  which 
was  afterward  echoed  by  Gray  in  his  ‘ Elegy.’  His  ‘ Pindaric  Ode 
to  Fame  ’ is  nervous  and  vigorous,  and  his  poem  on  the  discovery  of 
America  contains  several  good  passages.  In  addition  to  original 
work,  he  translated  two  speeches  of  ^schines  and  the  Crown 
Oration  of  Demosthenes,  after  whom  he  tried  to  model  his  own  style. 

Mr.  W.  E.  H.  Lecky,  in  his  ‘ Leaders  of  Public  Opinion  in  Ireland,’ 
says  of  Flood  : “ There  is  something  inexpressibly  melancholy  in 
the  life  of  this  man.  . . . Though  he  attained  to  a position  which, 
before  him,  had  been  unknown  in  Ireland  ; though  the  unanimous 
verdict  of  his  contemporaries  pronounced  him  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  intellects  that  ever  adorned  the  Irish  Parliament  ; and 
though  there  is  not  a single  act  of  his  life  which  may  not  be  con- 
strued in  a sense  perfectly  in  harmony  with  honor  and  with  patriot- 
ism, yet  his  career  presents  one  long  series  of  disappointments  and 
reverses.  At  an  age  when  most  statesmen  are  in  the  zenith  of  their 
influence  he  sank  into  political  impotence.  The  party  he  had  formed 
discarded  him  as  its  leader.  The  reputation  he  so  dearly  prized  was 
clouded  and  assailed  ; the  principles  he  had  sown  germinated  and 
fructified  indeed,  but  others  reaped  their  fruit  ; and  he  is  now 
scarcely  remembered  except  as  an  object  of  a powerful  invective  in 
Ireland  and  as  an  example  of  a deplorable  failure  in  England.  A 
few  pages  of  oratory,  which  probably  at  best  only  represent  the 
substance  of  his  speeches,  a few  youthful  poems,  a few  labored  let- 
ters, and  a biography  so  meager  and  unsatisfactory  that  it  scarcely 
gives  us  any  insight  into  his  character,  are  all  that  remain  of  Henry 
Flood.” 


FLOOD^S  REPLY  TO  GRATTAN’S  INVECTIVE. 

From  a Speech  delivered  in  the  Irish  Parliament  in  1783. 

I rise,  sir,  in  defense  of  an  injured  character;  and  when 
I recall  the  aspersions  of  that  night, — while  I despise  them, 
they  shall  be  recalled  only  to  be  disproved.  As  I have  en- 
deavored to  defend  the  rights  of  this  country  for  four-and- 
twenty  years,  I hope  the  house  will  permit  me  to  defend  my 
reputation.  My  public  life,  sir,  has  been  divided  into  three 
parts — and  it  has  been  dispatched  by  three  epithets.  The 
first  part,  that  which  preceded  Lord  Harcourt’s  adminis- 
tration; the  next,  which  passed  between  Lord  Harcourt’s 
and  Lord  Carlisle’s;  and  the  third,  which  is  subsequent. 
The  first  has  a summary  justice  done  it  by  being  said  to  be 
intemperate,” — the  second  is  treated  in  like  manner  by 
being  said  to  be  venal,” — and  the  conduct  of  the  third  is 
said  to  be  that  of  an  incendiary.”  . . . 


HENRY  FLOOD. 


1213 


With  respect  to  that  period  of  my  life  which  is 
dispatched  by  the  word  intemperate,”  I beg  the  house 
would  consider  the  difficult  situation  of  public  men  if  such 
is  to  be  their  treatment.  That  period  takes  in  a number  of 
administrations,  in  which  the  public  were  pleased  to  give 
me  the  sentence  of  their  approbation.  Sir,  it  includes,  for 
I wish  to  speak  to  facts,  not  to  take  it  up  on  epithets,  the 
administrations  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  Lord  Halifax,  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland,  Lord  Hertford,  and  Lord  Town- 
shend.  Now,  sir,  as  to  the  fact  of  intemperate,”  *I  wish  to 
state  to  you  how  that  stands,  and  let  the  honorable  mem- 
bers see  how  plain  a tale  will  put  him  down.  Of  those  five 
administrations  there  were  three  to  which  I was  so  far 
from  giving  an  intemperate  ” opposition,  that  I could  not 
be  said  in  any  sense  of  the  word  to  oppose  them  at  all — I 
mean  the  three  first.  I certainly  voted  against  the  secre- 
tary (Mr.  Hamilton)  of  the  day,  but  oftener  voted  with 
him.  In  Lord  Hertford’s  administration  I had  attained 
a certain  view,  and  a decided  opinion  of  what  was  fit  in 
my  mind  to  be  done  for  Ireland.  I had  fixed  on  three  great 
objects  of  public  utility.  I endeavored  to  attain  them  with 
that  spirit  and  energy  with  which  it  is  my  character  and 
nature  to  act  and  to  speak, — as  I must  take  the  disadvan- 
tages of  my  nature,  I will  take  the  advantages  of  it  too, — 
they  were  resisted  by  that  administration.  What  was  the 
consequence?  A conflict  arose  between  that  administration 
and  me : but  that  conflict  ought  not  to  be  called  opposition 
on  my  part;  no,  it  ought  rather  to  be  called  opposition  on 
theirs.  I was  the  propounder — they  resisted  my  proposi- 
tions. This  may  be  called  a conflict  with,  not  an  opposi- 
tion to  that  administration.  What  were  those  three  great 
objects?  One  was  to  prove  that  the  constitution  of  parlia- 
ment in  this  kingdom  did  still  exist;  that  it  had  not  been 
taken  away  by  the  law  of  Poynings,  but  that  it  was  by  an 
infamous  perversion  of  that  statute  by  which  the  constitu- 
tion had  suffered.  The  second  was  the  establishment  of  a 
constitutional  military  force  in  superaddition  to  that  of 
a standing  army, — the  only  idea  that  ever  occurred  in 
England,  or  in  any  free  country  in  Europe,  was  that  of  a 
constitutional  militia.  The  third  great  object  I took  up, 
as  necessary  for  Ireland,  was  a law  for  limiting  the  dura- 
tion of  parliaments  in  this  country.  These  were  three 


1214 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


great,  salutary,  and  noble  projects,  worthy  of  an  enlarged 
mind.  I pursued  them  with  ardor,  I do  not  deny  it,  but  I 
did  not  pursue  them  with  intemperance.  I am  sure  I did 
not  appear  to  the  public  to  do  so,  since  they  gave  my  exer- 
tions many  flattering  testimonies  of  their  approbation; 
there  is  another  proof,  however,  that  I was  not  intemper- 
ate ’’ — I was  successful.  Intemperance  and  miscarriage 
are  apt  to  go  together,  but  temperance  and  success  are  as- 
sociated by  nature.  This  is  my  plain  history  with  regard 
to  that  period.  The  clumsiness  or  virulence  of  invective 
may  require  to  be  sheathed  in  a brilliancy  of  figures,  but 
plain  truth  and  plain  sense  are  best  delivered  in  simple 
language. 

I now  come  to  that  period  in  which  Lord  Harcourt  gov- 
erned, and  which  is  stigmatized  by  the  word  venal.’’  If 
every  man  who  accepts  an  office  is  venal  ” and  an  apos- 
tate,” I certainly  cannot  acquit  myself  of  the  charge,  nor 
is  it  necessary.  If  it  be  a crime  universally,  let  it  be  uni- 
versally ascribed;  but  it  is  not  fair  that  one  set  of  men 
should  be  treated  by  that  honorable  member  as  great 
friends  and  lovers  of  their  country,  notwithstanding  they 
are  in  office,  and  another  set  of  men  should  be  treated  as 
enemies  and  apostates.  What  is  the  truth?  Everything  of 
this  sort  depends  on  the  principles  on  which  office  is  taken, 
and  on  which  it  is  retained.  With  regard  to  myself  let 
no  man  imagine  I am  preaching  up  a doctrine  for  my  own 
convenience;  there  is  no  man  in  this  house  less  concerned 
in  the  propagation  of  it.  ...  I beg  leave  to  state  briefly 
the  manner  in  which  I accepted  the  vice-treasureship : — 

It  was  offered  me  in  the  most  honorable  manner,  with 
an  assurance  not  only  of  being  a placeman  for  my  own 
profit,  but  a misister  for  the  benefit  of  my  country.  My 
answer  was  that  I thought  in  a constitution  such  as  the 
British  an  intercourse  between  the  prince  and  the  subject 
ought  to  be  honorable.  The  circumstance  of  being  a min- 
ister ought  to  redound  to  a man’s  credit,  though  I lament 
to  say  it  often  happens  otherwise ; men  in  office  frequently 
forget  those  principles  which  they  maintained  before.  I 
mentioned  the  public  principles  which  I held,  and  added, 
if  consistently  with  them,  from  an  atom  of  which  I could 
not  depart,  I could  be  of  service  to  his  majesty’s  govern- 
ment, I was  ready  to  render  it.  I now  speak  in  the  pres- 


HENRY.  FLOOD. 


1215 


ence  of  men  who  know  what  I say.  After  the  appointment 
had  come  over  to  this  kingdom,  I sent  in  writing  to  the 
chief  governor  that  I could  not  accept  it  unless  on  my  own 
stipulations.  Thus,  sir,  I took  office.  . . . 

In  Lord  Harcourt’s  administration  what  did  I do?  I 
had  the  board  of  commissioners  reduced  to  one,  by  which 
a saving  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  a year  was  effected.  I 
went  further,  I insisted  on  having  every  altered  money  bill 
thrown  out,  and  privy-council  bills  not  defended  by  the 
crown.  Thus,  instead  of  giving  sanction  to  the  measures 
I had  opposed,  my  conduct  was  in  fact  to  register  my  prin- 
ciples in  the  records  of  the  court — to  make  the  privy  coun- 
cil witness  the  privileges  of  a parliament  and  give  final 
energy  to  the  tenets  with  which  I commenced  my  public 
life.  The  right  honorable  member  who  has  censured  me, 
in  order  to  depreciate  that  economy,  said  that  we  had 
swept  with  the  feather  of  economy  the  pens  and  paper  off 
our  table : ” a pointed  and  brilliant  expression  which  is  far 
from  a just  argument.  This  country  had  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  that  species  of  economy,  when  the  great  nation 
of  Britain  had  been  obliged  to  descend  to  a system  as  mi- 
nute; it  was  not  my  fault  if  infinitely  more  was  not  done. 
If  administrations  were  wrong  on  the  absentee  tax,  they 
were  wrong  with  the  prejudices  of  half  a century — they 
were  wrong  with  every  great  writer  than  has  treated  of 
Irish  affairs.  ...  To  show  that  I was  not  under  any  undue 
influence  of  office,  when  the  disposition  of  the  house  was 
made  to  alter  on  the  absentee  tax,  and  when  the  adminis- 
tration yielded  to  the  violence  of  parliament,  I appeal  to 
the  consciousness  and  public  testimony  of  many  present 
whether  I did  veer  and  turn  icitli  the  secretary,  or  whether 
I did  not  make  a manly  stand  in  its  favor.  After  having 
pledged  myself  to  the  x>ublic  I would  rather  break  with  a 
million  of  administrations  than  retract ; I not  only  adhered 
to  that  principle,  but,  by  a singular  instance  of  exertion, 
found  it  a second  time  under  the  consideration  of  this 
house.  . . . 

The  third,  commencing  with  Lord  Carlisle’s  administra- 
tion, in  which  my  conduct  has  been  slandered  as  incen- 
diary.” There  was  not  a single  instance  in  which  the  hon- 
orable gentleman  (Mr.  Grattan)  did  not  co-operate.  If  I 
am  an  incendiary,  I will  gladly  accept  of  the  society  of 


1216 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


that  right  honorable  member,  under  the  same  appellation. 
If  I was  an  incendiary  it  was  for  moving  what  the  parlia- 
ments of  both  kingdoms  have  since  given  their  sanction 
to.  If  that  is  to  be  an  incendiary,  God  grant  that  I may 
continue  so.  Now,  sir,  I do  not  know  that  my  dismission 
from  office  was  thought  any  disgrace  to  me;  I do  not  think 
this  house  or  the  nation  thought  me  dishonored.  The  first 
day  I declared  those  sentiments  for  which  I was  dismissed 
I thought  it  was  my  honor.  Many  very  honorable  and 
worthy  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  is  since  dead,  except  in  the 
grateful  memory  of  his  country — one  who  thought  me  so 
little  the  character  of  an  incendiary,’^  that  he  crossed  the 
house,  together  with  others,  to  congratulate  me  on  the 
honor  of  my  conduct,  and  to  embrace  me  in  open  parlia- 
ment. At  that  moment  I surely  stood  free  of  the  imputa- 
tion of  an  incendiary  I ” But  this  beloved  character  (Mr. 
Burgh),  over  whose  life  nor  over  whose  grave  envy  never 
hovered — he  was  a man  wishing  ardently  to  serve  his  coun- 
try, but  not  to  monopolize  tlie  service — wishing  to  partake 
and  to  communicate  the  glory  of  what  passed! — He  gave 
me  in  his  motion  for  “ free-trade,”  a full  participation  of 
the  honor.  On  a subsequent  occasion  he  said, — I remem- 
ber the  words  well,  they  are  traced  with  a pencil  of  grati- 
tude on  my  heart, — “ that  I was  a man  whom  the  most 
lucrative  office  of  the  land  had  never  warped  in  point  of 
integrity.”  The  words  were  marked,  and  I am  sure  I 
repeat  them  fairly;  they  are  words  I should  be  proud  to 
have  inscribed  on  my  tomb.  Consider  the  man  from  whom 
they  came ; consider  the  situation  of  the  persons  concerned, 
and  it  adds  and  multiplies  the  honor.  My  noble  friend — I 
beg  pardon,  he  did  not  live  to  be  ennobled  by  patent,  but 
he  was  ennobled  by  nature — was  thus  situated:  he  had 
found  himself  obliged  to  surrender  his  office  and  enter  into 
active  opposition  to  that  government  from  whom  he  had 
obtained  it;  at  the  same  time  I remained  in  office,  though 
under  the  circumstance  of  having  sent  in  my  resignation. 
That  he  did  not  know,  but,  careless  to  everything  save 
honor  and  justice,  he  gave  way  to  those  sentiments  of  his 
heart,  and  he  approved. 

I have  received  this  ddy  from  the  united  delegates  of  the 
province  of  Connaught  an  approbation,  with  one  voice,” 
as  they  emphatically  express  it,  of  that  conduct  that  has 


HENRY  FLOOD. 


1217 


been  slandered  by  the  epithet  of  incendiary/^  An  assem- 
blage not  one  of  whom  I have  ever  seen,  not  one  of  whom 
I have  even  a chance  of  doing  a service  for,  and,  therefore, 
could  have  nothing  in  contemplation  but  the  doing  an  act 
of  justice.  Sir,  I had  a similar  expression  of  approbation 
from  another  province — Ulster.  Therefore,  if  I am  an  in- 
cendiary, all  Connaught  are  incendiaries — all  Ulster  are 
incendiaries!  With  two  provinces  at  my  back,  and  the 
parliament  of  England  in  my  favor  (by  the  act  of  re- 
muneration), I think  I need  not  fear  this  solitary  accusa- 
tion. ... 

It  has  been  said  by  the  right  honorable  member  (Mr. 
Grattan)  that  I am  an  outcast  of  government  and  of  my 
prince;^’  it  was  certainly,  sir,  an  extraordinary  transac- 
tion, but  it  likewise  happened  to  Mr.  Pultney  and  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire;  therefore  it  is  not  a decisive  proof  of  a 
reprobated  or  factious  character,  and  it  is  the  first  time 
it  has  been  mentioned  to  disadvantage.  . . . Sir,  you  have 
heard  the  accusation  of  the  right  honorable  member.  I ap- 
peal to  you  if  I am  that  supposititious  character  he  has 
drawn,  if  I am  that  character  in  any  degree.  I do  not 
deprecate  your  justice,  but  I demand  it.  I exhort  you  for 
the  honor  of  this  house,  I exhort  }mu  for  the  honor  of  your 
country,  to  rid  yourselves  of  a member  who  would  be  un- 
worthy to  sit  among  you. 


A DEFENSE  OP  THE  VOLUNTEERS. 

From  a Speech  delivered  in  the  Irish  Parliament  in  1783. 

Sir,  I have  not  mentioned  the  bill  as  being  the  measure  of 
any  set  of  men  or  body  of  men  whomsoever.  I am  as  free 
to  enter  into  the  discussion  of  the  bill  as  any  gentleman  in 
this  house,  and  with  as  little  prepossession  of  what  I shall 
propose.  I prefer  it  to  the  house  as  the  bill  of  my  right 
honorable  friend  who  seconded  me, — will  you  receive  it 
from  us? 

(After  a short  pause  Mr.  Flood  continued)  : In  the  last 
parliament  it  was  ordered  That  leave  be  given  for  the 
more  equal  representation  of  the  people  in  parliament ; 

19— Irish  Lit.  Vol.  3 


1218 


IRISH  LITERATVRE. 


this  was  in  the  Duke  of  Portland’s  administration,  an  ad- 
ministration the  right  honorable  gentleman  (Mr.  Yelver- 
ton)  professes  to  admire,  and  which  he  will  not  suspect  of 
overturning  the  constitution. 

I own,  from  the  turn  which  has  been  given  to  this  queS' 
tion,  I enter  on  it  with  the  deepest  anxiety ; armed  with  the 
authority  of  a precedent  I did  not  think  any  one  would  be 
so  desperate  as  to  give  such  violent  opposition  to  the  sim- 
ple introduction  of  a bill.  I now  rise  for  the  first  time  to 
speak  to  the  subject,  and  I call  on  every  man,  auditor  or 
spectator,  in  the  house  or  in  the  galleries,  to  remember 
this  truth, — that  if  the  volunteers  are  introduced  in  this 
debate,  it  is  not  I who  do  so.  The  right  honorable  gentle- 
man says,  If  the  volunteers  have  approved  it  he  will  op- 
pose it;  ” but  I say  I bring  it  in  as  a member  of  this  house 
supported  by  the  powerful  aid  of  my  right  honorable  friend 
(Mr.  Brownlow)  who  sits  behind  me.  We  bring  it  in  as 
members  of  parliament,  never  mentioning  the  volunteers. 
I ask  you,  will  you  receive  it  from  us — from  us,  your  mem- 
bers, neither  intending  by  anything  within  doors  or  with- 
out to  intimidate  or  overawe  you?  I ask,  will  you — will 
you  receive  it  as  our  bill,  or  will  you  conjure  up  a military 
phantom  of  interposition  to  affright  yourselves? 

I have  not  introduced  the  volunteers,  but  if  they  are 
aspersed  I will  defend  their  character  against  all  the 
world.  By  whom  were  the  commerce  and  the  constitution 
of  this  country  recovered? — By  the  volunteers! 

Why  did  not  the  right  honorable  gentleman  make  a 
declaration  against  them  when  they  lined  our  streets — ■ 
when  parliament  passed  through  the  ranks  of  those  vir- 
tuous armed  men  to  demand  the  rights  of  an  insulted  na- 
tion? Are  they  different  men  at  this  day,  or  is  the  right 
honorable  gentleman  different?  He  was  then  one  of  their 
body,  he  is  now  their  accuser!  He  who  saw  the  streets 
lined,  who  rejoiced,  who  partook  in  their  glory,  is  now  their 
accuser ! Are  they  less  wise,  less  brave,  less  ardent  in  their 
country’s  cause,  or  has  their  admirable  conduct  made  him 
their  enemy?  May  they  not  say.  We  have  not  changed, 
but  you  have  changed?  The  right  honorable  gentleman 
cannot  bear  to  hear  of  jolunteers;  but  I will  ask  him,  and 
I will  have  a starling  taught  to  halloo  in  his  ear — Who 


HENRY  FLOOD. 


1219 


gave  you  the  free-trade?  who  got  you  the  free  constitution? 
who  made  you  a nation?  The  volunteers ! 

If  they  were  the  men  you  now  describe  them,  why  did 
you  accept  of  their  service?  why  did  you  not  then  accuse 
them?  If  they  were  so  dangerous,  why  did  you  pass 
through  their  ranks  with  your  speaker  at  your  head  to 
demand  a constitution?  why  did  you  not  then  fear  the  ills 
you  now  apprehend? 


ON  A COMMERCIAL  TREATY  WITH  FRANCE. 

From  a Speech  delivered  in  the  British  Parliament  (1787)  in  reply 
to  Mr.  Pitt,  whose  commercial  system  Flood  combated. 

One  thing  at  least  I think  is  clear,  that  France  is  one 
of  the  last  countries  in  Europe  with  which  you  ought  to 
have  engaged;  yet  by  this  treaty  you  will  make  her  the 
first,  though  she  has  taken  care  not  to  make  you  so.  What 
is  the  consequence?  She  can  now  do  against  you  what 
you  cannot  retaliate  against  her.  She  can  use  her  in- 
fluence with  Spain — Is  she  not  doing  it? — With  America — 
Is  she  not  doing  it? — and  in  every  other  country  with 
which  she  communicates,  to  prevent  them  from  entering 
into  engagements  with  you.  How  easily  can  she  prevail 
on  them  to  insist  upon  preliminaries  to  which  you  cannot 
accede,  and  yet  to  which,  if  you  do  not  accede,  they  will 
not  negotiate.  What  follows?  A decline  of  communica- 
tion between  you  and  those  powers.  And  what  follows 
from  that?  That  what  those  powers  must  import  from 
you  they  will  choose  to  import  indirectly  through  France 
rather  than  directly  from  you.  Thus  for  so  much  she 
would  become  the  medium  and  carrier  of  your  trade,  a cir- 
cumstance in  my  mind  devoutly  to  be  deprecated.  What 
is  at  present  your  confidence  as  to  America?  Is  it  not  that 
she  must  return  to  you  for  the  sake  of  that  long  credit 
which  France  cannot  afford  to  her.  But  what  will  be  the 
operation  of  this  treaty?  It  will  give  English  credit  to 
France  in  the  first  instance,  and  in  the  second  France  can 
give  it  to  America.  Thus  it  will  deprive  you  of  your  only 
advantage  as  to  America,  and  transfer  it  to  your  rival, 
wlio  has  every  other  advantage.  • Thus  it  will  cement  the 
connection  between  France  and  America,  and  perpetuate 


1220 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


the  disconnection  between  those  states  and  Great  Britain, 
whilst  in  Europe  it  will  rivet  the  confederacy  between 
France  and  Spain,  and  unrivet  that  between  Great  Britain 
and  Portugal,  if  it  does  not  even  add  it  as  a link  to  the 
chain  of  the  house  of  Bourbon.  As  to  Ireland,  what  is  its 
policy?  It  shows  more  favor  to  France  than  was  shown 
the  other  day  to  Ireland.  And  what  does  it  do  next?  It 
sends  France  into  Ireland  to  colonize  in  her  towns,  to  line 
her  western  coast  and  the  Atlantic,  to  become  the  medium 
between  certain  classes  of  her  people  and  America,  to  en- 
courage emigration  in  peace  and  separation  in  war. 

Now  turn  your  eyes  to  the  East.  What  did  France  do  in 
1748?  She  made  the  treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  the  day 
after  she  fortified  in  America.  The  day  after  this  treaty 
she  will  fortify  in  Asia.  What  will  follow?  If  she  cannot 
rival  your  cotton  manufacture  in  Europe,  she  will  undo  it 
in  Asia.  She  will  admit  Asiatic  cottons  free  from  duty. 
She  can  do  it  without  even  an  infraction  of  this  treaty,  for 
even  that  has  not  been  guarded  against  by  your  negotia- 
tor. But  she  cannot  do  it  without  the  ruin  of  your  Euro- 
pean manufactures.  Would  not  this  be  an  acceptable 
measure  in  Asia,  I ask?  If  she  were  to  contend  with  you 
for  Bengal  (which  one  day  she  will),  could  she  do  it  upon 
a better  foundation?  With  her  intrigues  among  the  Asi- 
atic powers;  with  the  connivance  or  co-operation  of  the 
Dutch,  recruited  and  fortified  as  she  then  would  be,  might 
not  your  Asiatic  Empire  tremble?  Is  it  so  secure  in  its 
nature  as  to  bid  defiance  to  assault?  Or  is  any  man  so 
credulous  as  to  believe  that  to  the  glory  of  having  stripped 
you  of  America,  she  would  not  wish  to  accumulate  the  re- 
nown of  depriving  you  of  Asia  too?  I am  no  reviler  of 
France.  I honor  her  genius,  I honor  her  activity;  but 
whilst  I honor  France  I am  devoted  to  Great  Britain. 
Time  and  circumstances  have  made  us  rivals;  let  us  be  as 
generous  rivals  as  you  will;  but  let  us  not  be  counterfeiting 
friends.  ... 

No  man  glories  more  than  I do  in  the  mighty  exertions 
of  this  great  nation  in  the  last  war,  whilst  no  man  more 
regrets  the  principle  and  the  event  of  it.  But  I am  not  so 
credulous  as  to  believe  that  our  failure  has  rendered  us 
more  formidable  to  France.  On  the  other  hand,  I see  no 
reason  to  despond.  For  if  Queen  Elizabeth,  - amidst  all 
her  distresses,  could  place  this  country  at  the  head  of 


HENRY  FLOOD, 


1221 


Europe,  as  the  common  friend  to  justice  and  as  the  common 
enemy  to  oppression;  if  Oliver  Cromwell,  with  the  stain 
of  usurper  on  his  head,  could  continue  this  kingdom  in  the 
situation  in  which  it  had  been  placed  by  Elizabeth;  and 
if  both  of  them  could  do  this  without  the  aid  of  America, 
I do  not  see  why  we  should  despond  now. 

With  these  glories  before  my  eyes,  and  remembering  how 
nobly  they  have  been  augmented  within  these  hundred 
years,  I stand  in  astonishment  at  the  preamble  of  this 
treaty,  which  calls  on  us,  in  a tone  of  triumph,  to  reverse 
the  system  of  that  century.  I cannot  help  asking  myself 
who  these  men  are  who  thus  summon  a mighty  nation  to 
renounce  its  honors  and  to  abdicate  its  superiority.  But 
be  they  who  they  may,  if  they  ask  me  to  depose  Great  Bri- 
tain, and  to  put  France  into  the  throne  of  Europe,  I an- 
swer, No.  If  they  ask  me  to  repeal  the  revolution,  I 
answer.  No.  Or  the  liberty  that  came  with  it,  or  the  glory 
that  followed  it,  or  the  maxims  of  government  that  have 
cherished  and  adorned  them  both,  I continue  to  answer  by 
a reiterated  negative.  I confide  that  you  will  do  the  same, 
and  I conclude. 


ELLEN  FORRESTEE. 


(1828—1883.) 

Miss  Magennis  was  born  in  Clones,  County  Monaghan  about 
1828.  Her  father  was  a schoolmaster,  and  her  brother  wa<^  also  a 
writer  of  verse.  When  a girl  she  settled  in  England,  where  she 
married  Mr.  Forrester,  a stone  mason,  and  three  of  her  children 
became  poets.  She  wrote  for  The  Nation  and  for  several  English 
newspapers,  and  published  two  volumes  of  verse,  ‘ Simple  Strains  ’ 
and  ‘Songs  of  the  Rising  Nation.’  She  died  at  Salford,  England, 
Jan.  6,  1883. 

THE  WIDOW’S  MESSAGE  TO  HER  SON. 

Remember,  Denis,  all  I bade  you  say ; 

Tell  him  we  ’re  well  and  happy,  thank  the  Lord ; 

But  of  our  troubles,  since  he  went  away, 

You  ’ll  mind,  avick,  and  never  say  a word! 

Of  cares  and  troubles,  sure,  we’ve  all  our  share; 

The  finest  summer  isn’t  always  fair. 

Tell  him  the  spotted  heifer  calved  in  May ; 

She  died,  poor  thing;  but  that  you  needn’t  mind; 

Nor  how  the  constant  rain  destroyed  the  hay; 

But  tell  him  God  to  us  was  ever  kind ; 

And  when  the  fever  spread  the  country  o’er, 

His  mercy  kept  the  ^ sickness  ’ from  our  door. 

Be  sure  you  tell  him  how  the  neighbors  came 
And  cut  the  corn ; and  stored  it  in  the  barn ; 

’T  would  be  as  well  to  mention  them  by  name — ■ 

Pat  Murphy,  Ned  M’Cabe,  and  James  M’Carn, 

And  big  Tim  Daly  from  behind  the  hill ; 

But  say  agra  ^ — O mj  I miss  him  still ! 

They  came  with  ready  hands  our  toil  to  share — 

’T  was  then  I missed  him  most — my  own  right  hand ; 

I felt,  although  kind  hearts  were  round  me  there. 

The  kindest  heart  beat  in  a foreign  land. 

Strong  hand  ! brave  heart ! O severed  far  from  me 
By  many  a weary  league  of  shore  and  sea ! 

And  tell  him  she  was  with  us — he  ’ll  know  who : 
Mavourneen,^  hasn’t  she  the  winsome  eyes? 

1 Agradh,  O love  ! 2 Mo-mhidrnin,  my  darling. 

1222 


'ELLEN  FORRESTER. 


1223 


The  darkest,  deepest,  brightest,  bonniest  blue, 

I ever  saw  except  in  summer  skies. 

And  such  black  hair!  it  is  the  blackest  hair 
That  ever  rippled  over  neck  so  fair. 

Tell  him  old  Pincher  fretted  many  a day 
And  moped,  poor  dog,  T was  well  he  didn’t  die ; 
Crouched  by  the  roadside,  how  he  watched  the  way. 
And  sniffed  the  travelers  as  they  passed  him  by — 
Hail,  rain,  or  sunshine,  sure ’t  was  all  the  same, 
He  listened  for  the  foot  that  never  came. 

Tell  him  the  house  is  lonesome-like,  and  cold. 

The  fire  itself  seems  robbed  of  half  its  light; 

But  maybe ’t  is  my  eyes  are  growing  old. 

And  things  look  dim  before  my  failing  sight: 

For  all  that,  tell  him  ’t  was  myself  that  spun 
The  shirts  you  bring,  and  stitched  them  every  one. 

Give  him  my  blessing,  morning,  noon,  and  night; 
Tell  him  my  prayers  are  offered  for  his  good. 

That  he  may  keep  his  Maker  still  in  sight. 

And  firmly  stand,  as  his  brave  father  stood. 

True  to  his  name,  his  country,  and  his  God, 
Faithful  at  home,  and  steadfast  still  abroad.’’ 


GEORGE  FOX. 


Very  little  is  known  about  the  life  of  George  Fox  beyond  the  fact 
that  he  was  born  in  Belfast  ; was  • graduated  from  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  B.A.  1842,  M.A.  1847,  and  came  to  America  in  1848. 

He  is  well  known,  however,  as  the  translator  of  ‘ The  County  of 
Mayo  ’ from  the  Irish.  His  translation  first  appeared  in  a review 
of  Hardiman’s  ‘ Irish  Minstrelsy  ’ in  The  Dublin  University  Maga- 
zine. The  original  is  printed  in  the  first  named.  Hardiman  says 
that  it  was  known  sometimes  as  ‘ The  Lament  of  Thomas  Flavell,’ 
having  been  composed  by  a seventeenth-century  bard  of  that  name. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  popular  songs  of  the  peasantry  of  the  West  of 
Ireland,  and  was,  he  says,  combined  with  one  of  the  sweetest  of 
Irish  melodies — the  very  soul  of  plaintive  Irish  music. 


THE  COUNTY  OF  MAYO. 

From  the  Irish  of  Thomas  Flavell. 

On  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch’s  boat  I sat  in  woful  plight. 

Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day  and  weeping  all  the 
night. 

Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I go, 

By  the  blessM  sun,  ’t  is  royally  I ’d  sing  thy  praise,  Mayo. 

When  I dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,  and  my  gold  did  much 
abound. 

In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went 
round. 

’T  is  a bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  now  I ’m  forced 
to  go. 

And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my  own 
Mayo. 

They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now ; ’t  is  proud  they  ’re  grown 
and  high. 

With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots — for  I pass  their 
buckles  by. 

But  it ’s  little  now  I heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have  it  so. 

That  I must  depart  for  foreign  lands,  and  leave  my  sweet 
Mayo. 


1224 


GEORGE  FOX. 


1225 


'i  is  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  in  Irrul 
still, 

And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon  the  Hill ; 
And  that  Colonel  Hugh  MacGrady  should  be  lying  dead  and 
low, 

And  I sailing,  sailing  swiftly  from  the  county  of  Mayo. 


SIR  PHILIP  FRANCIS. 


(1740—1818.) 

“Whether  ‘Junius ’or  not,  Sir  Philip  Francis  was,”  says  Mr. 
Leslie  Stephen,  “ a man  of  great  ability  and  of  unflagging  industry.” 
He  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1740.  He  was  the  son  of  Dr.  Francis,  the 
translator  of  Horace.  When  his  father  removed  to  England  he  was 
ten  years  old  and  he  received  his  education  at  the  Academy  under  his 
father  and  at  St.  Paul’s  School,  London.  Here  he  had  for  a school- 
fellow, Henry  S.  Woodfall,  afterward* the  printer  of  the  ‘ Letters 
of  Junius.’  In  1756  Francis  became  a clerk  in  the  Secretary  of 
State’s  office.  His  ability  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  Pitt,  who 
succeeded  Lord  Holland,  and  in  1758  he  was  on  Pitt’s  recommendation 
appointed  secretary  to  General  Bligh,  and  was  present  at  the  capture 
of  Cherbourg. 

In  1760,  through  the  same  patronage,  he  became  secretary  to  the 
Earl  of  Kinnoul,  and  accompanied  that  nobleman  on  his  embassy  to 
Lisbon.  In  1763  he  obtained  a considerable  post  in  the  War  office, 
which  he  resigned  in  1772  in  consequence  of  a difference  with  Lord 
Barrington.  The  greater  part  of  this  year  was  spent  by  Francis  in 
a visit  to  the  Continent,  during  which  he  had  a long  audience  with 
the  Pope,  a curious  account  of  which  in  his  own  handwriting  is 
among  the  manuscripts  in  possession  of  his  grandson.  On  his  re- 
turn he  was  appointed  by  Lord  North  one  of  the  civil  members  of 
Council  for  the  government  of  Bengal,  and  sailed  for  India  in  June, 
1773.  His  conduct  at  the  Council-board  was  marked  by  a constant 
and  violent  opposition  to  the  policy  of  the  Governor-General,  War- 
ren Hastings,  which  resulted  in  a duel  with  the  latter,  in  which  Fran- 
cis was  dangerously  wounded.  The  resignation  of  his  post,  worth 
£10,000  ($50,000)  a year,  naturally  followed. 

He  returned  to  England  in  1781,  and  shortly  after  was  elected 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Yarmouth  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  In  the 
House  he  supported  Whig  principles,  joining  the  Opposition,  then  led 
by  Fox.  He  actively  promoted  the  proceedings  which  ended  in  the 
impeachment  of  Hastings,  and  afforded  valuable  information  and 
advice  to  Burke  and  the  other  managers  of  the  great  trial.  In  1807 
he  finally  retired  from  Parliament.  His  speech^es  while  a Member, 
notwithstanding  a defect  of  utterance  caused  by  an  over-sensibility  of 
temperament,  are  said  to  have  been  remarkable  for  refinement,  simpli- 
city, energy,  and  point.  In  1806  he  was  created  a Knight  of  the  Bath, 
and  in  1816,  when  the  public  curiosity  on  the  subject  of  the  ‘ Letters 
of  Junius  ’ had  greatly  subsided,  attention  was  directed  toward  Sir 
Philip  Francis,  in  consequence  of  the  appearance  of  a pamphlet  by 
Mr.  John  Taylor,  in  which  strong  evidence  was  adduced  as  to  his  being 
their  author.  Francis  denied  the  authorship  in  a somewhat  equivo- 
cal way,  and  in  1818,  while  the  question  was  still  hotly  discussed, 
he  died  in  his  seventy-ninth  year.  He  published  a number  of  politi- 
cal speeches,  ‘ Remarks  on  the  Defense  of  Warren  Hastings,’  ‘ Letters 

1226 


SIR  PHILIP  FBAHGIS. 


1227 


on  the  East  India  Company,’  ‘ Eeflections  on  the  Currency,’  etc., 
which  were  only  of  temporary  interest  and  are  now  forgotten. 

The  secret  of  the  authorship  of  the  ‘ Letters  of  Junius,’  like  that 
of  the  personality  of  the  ‘ Man  in  the  Iron  Mask,’  has  never  really  been 
penetrated.  Although  more  than  a century  has  elapsed  since  their 
publication ; although  volumes  have  been  written  on  the  subject,  and 
the  most  prying  curiosity  and  industrious  ingenuity  have  been  at 
work  to  collect  evidence  on  the  point,  we  have  as  yet  no  positive 
proof  to  decide  the  question  who  was  their  real  author.  More  than 
fifty  names  of  eminent  men  living  at  the  period  have  been  brought 
forward  and  advocated  at  various  times,  including  those  of  Lord 
Chatham,  Burke,  Gibbon,  Grattan,  Pownall,  Rich,  Horne  Tooke, 
Wilkes,  and  more  especially  Lord  George  Sackville,  buti^ere  can 
be  little  doubt  that  the  claim  of  authorship  for  Sir  Philip  Francis 
still  remains  the  strongest.  The  arguments  for  this  view  may  be 
brie'fly  stated  as : his  absence  on  a journey  to  the  Continent  coincides 
with  an  interruption  in  the  letters  ; his  departure  for  India  with  a 
high  appointment,  with  their  cessation  ; his  receiving  that  appoint- 
ment without  any  apparent  cause,  just  after  leaving  the  War  office  ; 
his  station  in  the  War  office,  with  all  details  of  which  “Junius  ” is  so 
familiar ; his  knowledge  of  speeches  not  reported ; coincidences  of 
thought  and  expression  between  passages  of  the  letters  and  of  speeches 
of  Lord  Chatham,  reports  of  which  had  been  furnished  by  Francis, 
and  with  his  own  speeches  made  after  his  return  from  India  ; his 
being  known  to  be  an  able  pamphleteenr;  and,  finally,  peculiar 
modes  of  spelling  and  of  correcting  the  press,  and  resemblance  of 
handwriting. 

Macaulay  deals  with  the  authorship  of  these  letters  in  his  essay 
on  Warren  Hastings  in  his  usually  interesting  manner.  If,  as  he 
supposes.  Sir  Philip  Francis  was  the  author,  he  certainly  had  ample 
opportunity  to  realize  abroad  the  meaning  of  the  corruption  he  had 
denounced  at  home,  for,  as  we  have  seen,  he  was  in  India  from  1774 
to  1780  as  a member  of  the  Council  appointed  to  check  Warren 
Hastings. 

They  first  appeared  in  Woodf all’s  Public  Advertiser  at  a time  of 
great  political  excitement,  and  were  directed  against  the  principal 
men  of  the  day  connected  with  the  Government,  not  sparing  even 
royalty  itself.  Forty-four  bear  the  signature  of  “Junius,”  the 
earliest  of  which  is  dated  Jan.  21,  1769,  the  last  Jan.  21,  177^  In 
the  latter  year  they  were  collected  (the  collection  including  also 
fifteen  letters  signed  “ Philo- Junius,”  really  written  by  the  same 
person),  revised  by  “ Junius,”  who  added  notes,  and  published  by 
Woodf  all,  with  a Dedication  to  the  English  Nation  and  a Preface 
by  the  author.  Another  edition  was  afterward  issued,  containing 
not  only  the  letters  of  “Junius  ” proper,  but  also  his  private  letters  to 
Mr.  Woodfall,  his  correspondence  with  Wilkes,  and  other  com- 
munications to  the  Advertiser  by  the  same  author  under  different 
signatures  and  relating  to  different  subjects,  but  all  marked  with 
the  same  boldness,  severity,  and  passion  which  characterize  the 
‘ Letters  ’ themselves. 

Numerous  editions  have  since  appeared,  among  others  an  enlarged 
and  improved  edition  in  1850  in  two  volumes,  edited  by  Mr.  J ohn 


1228 


IRI^E  LITERATURE, 


Wade,  who  in  an  essay  prefixed  makes  out  a strong  case  in  favor 
of  the  authorship  of  Sir  Philip  Francis.  A more  recent  work  which 
supports  the  same  view  is  ‘ The  Handwriting  of  Junius  Professionally 
Investigated  by  Mr.  Charles  Chabot,  Expert,’  with  preface  and  col- 
lateral evidence  by  the  Hon.  Edward  Twistleton  (London,  1871). 

TO  THE  DUKE  OP  GKAFTON. 

July  8,  1769. 

My  Lord: 

If  nature  had  given  you  an  understanding  qualified  to 
keep  pace  with  the  wishes  and  principles  of  your  heart, 
she  would  have  made  you  perhaps  the  most  formidable 
minister  that  ever  was  employed  under  a limited  monarch 
to  accomplish  the  ruin  of  a free  people.  When  neither  the 
feelings  of  shame,  the  reproaches  of  conscience,  nor  the 
dread  of  punishment,  form  any  bar  to  the  designs  of  a min- 
ister, the  people  would  have  too  much  reason  to  lament 
their  condition  if  they  did  not  find  some  resource  in  the 
weakness  of  his  understanding.  We  owe  it  to  the  bounty 
of  Providence,  that  the  completest  depravity  of  the  heart 
is  sometimes  strangely  united  with  a confusion  of  the  mind 
which  counteracts  the  most  favorite  principles,  and  makes 
the  same  man  treacherous  without  art  and  a hypocrite 
without  deceiving.  The  measures,  for  instance,  in  which 
your  Grace^s  activity  has  been  chiefly  exerted,  as  they  were 
adopted  without  skill,  should  have  been  conducted  with 
more  than  common  dexterity. 

But  truly,  my  lord,  the  execution  has  been  as  gross  as 
the  design.  By  one  decisive  step  you  have  defeated  all  the 
arts  of  writing.  You  have  fairly  confounded  the  intrigues 
of  opposition  and  silenced  the  clamor  of  faction.  A dark, 
ambiguous  system  might  require  and  furnish  the  materials 
of  ingenious  illustration;  and,  in  doubtful  measures,  the 
virulent  exaggeration  of  party  must  be  employed  to  rouse 
and  engage  the  passions  of  the  people.  You  have  now 
brought  the  merits  of  your  administration  to  an  issue  on 
which  every  Englishman  of  the  narrowest  capacity  may 
determine  for  himself.  It  is  not  an  alarm  to  the  passions, 
but  a calm  appeal  to  the  judgment  of  the  people  upon  their 
own  most  essential  interests.  A more  experienced  minis- 
ter would  not  have  hazarded  a direct  invasion  of  the  flrst 
principles  of  the  constitution  before  he  had  made  some 


SIR  PHILIP  FRANCIS. 


1229 


progress  in  subduing  the  spirit  of  the  people.  With  such 
a cause  as  yours,  my  lord,  it  is  not  sufficient  that  you  have 
the  court  at  your  devotion,  unless  you  can  find  means  to 
corrupt  or  intimidate  the  jury.  The  collective  body  of  the 
people  form  that  jury,  and  from  their  decision  there  is  but 
one  appeal. 

Whether  you  have  talents  to  support  you  at  a crisis  of 
such  difficulty  and  danger  should  long  since  have  been 
considered.  Judging  truly  of  your  disposition,  you  have 
perhaps  mistaken  the  extent  of  your  capacity.  Good  faith 
and  folly  have  so  long  been  received  as  synonymous  terms 
that  the  reverse  of  the  proposition  has  grown  into  credit, 
and  every  villain  fancies  himself  a man  of  abilities.  It  is 
the  apprehension  of  your  friends,  my  lord,  that  you  have 
drawn  some  hasty  conclusion  of  this  sort,  and  that  a 
partial  reliance  upon  your  moral  character  has  betrayed 
you  beyond  the  depth  of  your  understanding.  You  have 
now  carried  things  too  far  to  retreat.  You  have  plainly 
declared  to  the  people  what  they  are  to  expect  from  the 
continuance  of  your  administration.  It  is  time  for  your 
Grace  to  consider  what  you  also  may  expect  in  return  from 
their  spirit  and  their  resentment. 

Since  the  accession  of  our  most  gracious  sovereign  to 
the  throne,  we  have  seen  a system  of  government  which 
may  well  be  called  a reign  of  experiments.  Parties  of  all 
denominations  have  been  employed  and  dismissed.  The 
advice  of  the  ablest  men  in  this  country  has  been  re- 
peatedly called  for  and  rejected;  and  when  the  royal  dis- 
pleasure has  been  signified  to  a minister,  the  marks  of  it 
have  usually  been  proportioned  to  his  abilities  and  in- 
tegrity. The  spirit  of  the  favorite  had  some  apparent  in- 
fluence upon  every  administration ; and  every  set  of  minis- 
ters preserved  an  appearance  of  duration  as  long  as  they 
submitted  to  that  influence.  But  there  were  certain  ser- 
vices to  be  performed  for  the  favorite’s  security,  or  to 
gratify  his , resentments,  which  your  predecessors  in  office 
had  the  wisdom  or  the  virtue  not  to  undertake.  The  mo- 
ment this  refractory  spirit  was  discovered,  their  disgrace 
was  determined.  Lord  Chatham,  Mr.  Grenville,  and  Lord 
Rockingham  have  successively  had  the  honor  to  be  dis- 
missed for  preferring  their  duty  as  servants  of  the  public 
to  those  compliances  which  were  expected  from  their  sta- 


1230 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


tion.  A submissive  administration  was  at  last  gradually 
collected  from  the  deserters  of  all  parties,  interests,  and 
connections;  and  nothing  remained  but  to  find  a leader 
for  these  gallant,  well-disciplined  troops.  Stand  forth,  my 
lord ; for  thou  art  the  man.  Lord  Bute  found  no  resource 
of  dependence  or  security  in  the  proud,  imposing,  superi- 
ority of  Lord  Chatham's  abilities,  the  shrewd,  inflexible  . 
judgment  of  Mr.  Grenville,  nor  in  the  mild  but  determined 
integrity  of  Lord  Rockingham.  His  views  and  situation 
required  a creature  void  of  all  these  properties;  and  he 
was  forced  to  go  through  every  division,  resolution,  compo- 
sition, and  refinement  of  political  chemistry  before  he  hap- 
pily arrived  at  the  caput  mortuum  of  vitriol  in  your  Grace. 
Flat  and  insipid  in  your  retired  state;  but,  brought  into 
action,  you  become  vitriol  again.  Such  are  the  extremes 
of  alternate  indolence  or  fury  which  governed  your  whole 
administration.  Your  circumstances  with  regard  to  the 
people  soon  becoming  desperate,  like  other  honest  servants, 
you  determined  to  involve  the  best  of  masters  in  the  same 
difficulties  with  yourself.  We  owe  it  to  your  Grace’s  well- 
directed  labors  that  your  sovereign  has  been  persuaded  to 
doubt  of  the  affections  of  his  subjects,  and  the  people  to 
suspect  the  virtues  of  their  sovereign  at  a time  when  both 
were  unquestionable. 

You  have  degraded  the  royal  dignity  into  a base,  dishon- 
orable competition  with  Mr.  Wilkes;  nor  had  you  abilities 
to  carry  even  this  last  contemptible  triumph  over  a private 
man  without  the  grossest  violation  of  the  fundamental 
laws  of  the  constitution  and  rights  of  the  people.  But 
these  are  rights,  my  lord,  which  you  can  no  more  annihilate 
than  you  can  the  soil  to  which  they  are  annexed.  The 
question  no  longer  turns  upon  points  of  national  honor  and 
security  abroad,  or  on  the  degrees  of  expedience  and  pro- 
priety of  measures  at  home.  It  was  not  inconsistent  that 
you  should  abandon  the  cause  of  liberty  in  another  coun- 
try, which  you  had  persecuted  in  your  own;  and,  in  the 
common  arts  of  domestic  corruption,  we  miss  no  part  of  Sir 
Robert  Walpole’s  system  except  his  abilities.  In  this  hum- 
ble imitative  line  you  might  long  have  proceeded  safe  and 
contemptible.  You  might  probably  never  have  risen  to  the 
dignity  of  being  hated,  and  even  have  been  despised  with 
moderation.  But  it  seems  you  meant  to  be  distinguished; 


SIR  PHILIP  FRANCIS. 


1231 


and  to  a mind  like  yours  there  .was  no  other  road  to  fame 
but  by  the  destruction  of  a noble  fabric,  which  you  thought 
had  been  too  long  the  admiration  of  mankind.  The  use 
you  have  made  of  the  military  force  introduced  an  alarm- 
ing change  in  the  mode  of  executing  the  laws.  The  arbi- 
trary appointment  of  Mr.  Luttrell  invades  the  foundation 
of  the  laws  themselves,  as  it  manifestly  transfers  the  right 
of  legislation  from  those  whom  the  people  have  chosen  to 
those  whom  they  have  rejected.  With  a succession  of  such 
appointment  we  may  soon  see  a House  of  Commons  col- 
lected, in  the  choice  of  which  the  other  towns  and  counties 
of  England  will  have  as  little  share  as  the  devoted  county 
of  Middlesex. 

Yet  I trust  your  Grace  will  find  that  the  people  of  this 
country  are  neither  to  be  intimidated  by  violent  measures 
nor  deceived  b.y  refinements.  W^hen  they  see  Mr.  Luttrell 
seated  in  the  House  of  Commons  by  mere  dint  of  power, 
and  in  direct  opposition  to  the  choice  of  a whole  county, 
they  will  not  listen  to  those  subtleties  by  which  every  ar- 
bitrary exertion  of  authority  is  explained  into  the  law  and 
privilege  of  Parliament.  It  requires  no  persuasion  of  argu- 
ment, but  simply  the  evidence  of  the  senses  to  convince 
them  that  to  transfer  the  right  of  election  from  the  col- 
lective to  the  representative  body  of  the  people  contradicts 
all  those  ideas  of  a House  of  Commons  which  they  have  re- 
ceived from  their  forefathers,  and  which  they  have  already, 
though  vainly  perhaps,  delivered  to  their  children.  The 
principles  on  which  this  violent  measure  has  been  defended 
have  added  scorn  to  injury,  and  forced  us  to  feel  that  we 
are  not  only  oppressed,  but  insulted. 

With  what  force,  my  lord,  with  what  protection  are  you 
prepared  to  meet  the  united  detestation  of  the  people  of 
England?  The  city  of  London  has  given  a generous  ex- 
ample to  the  kingdom  in  what  manner  a king  of  this  coun- 
try ought  to  be  addressed ; and  I fancy,  my  lord,  it  is  not 
yet  in  your  courage  to  stand  between  your  sovereign  and 
the  addresses  of  his  subjects.  The  injuries  you  have  done 
this  country  are  such  as  demand  not  only  redress,  but  ven- 
geance. In  vain  shall  you  look  for  protection  to  that 
venal  vote  which  you  have  already  paid  for : another  must 
be  purchased;  and,  to  save  a minister,  the  House  of  Com- 
mons must  declare  themselves  not  only  independent  of 


1232 


IRim  LITERATURE. 


their  constituents,  but  the  determined  enemies  of  the  con- 
stitution. Consider,  my  lord,  whether  this  be  an  extremity 
to  which  their  fears  will  permit  them  to  advance;  or,  if 
their  protection  should  fail  you,  how  far  you  are  authorized 
to  rely  upon  the  sincerity  of  those  smiles  which  a pious 
court  lavishes  without  reluctance  upon  a libertine  by  pro- 
fession. It  is  not,  indeed,  the  least  of  the  thousand  con- 
tradictions which  attend  3"ou,  that  a man  marked  to  the 
world  by  the  grossest  violation  of  all  ceremony  and  de- 
corum should  be  the  first  servant  of  a court  in  which  pray- 
ers are  morality  and  kneeling  is  religion. 

Trust  not  too  far  to  appearances,  by  which  your  prede- 
cessors have  been  deceived,  though  they  have  not  been 
injured.  Even  the  best  of  princes  may  at  last  discover  that 
this  is  a contention  in  which  everything  may  be  lost,  but 
nothing  can  be  gained ; and  as  you  became  minister  by  acci- 
dent, were  adopted  without  choice,  trusted  without  confi- 
dence, and  continued  without  favor,  be  assured  that  when- 
ever an  occasion  presses  you  will  be  discarded  without  even 
the  forms  of  regret.  You  will  then  have  reason  to  be 
thankful  if  you  are  permitted  to  retire  to  that  seat  of 
learning  which  in  contemplation  of  the  system  of  your  life, 
the  comparative  purity  of  your  manners,  with  those  of 
their  high-steward,  and  a thousand  other  recommending 
circumstances,  has  chosen  you  to  encourage  the  growing 
virtue  of  their  youth,  and  to  preside  over  their  education. 

Whenever  the  spirit  of  distributing  prebends  and  bish- 
oprics shall  have  departed  from  you,  you  will  find  that 
learned  seminary  perfectly  recovered  from  the  delirium 
of  an  installation,  and,  what  in  truth  it  ought  to  be,  once 
more  a peaceful  scene  of  slumber  and  thoughtless  medita- 
tion. The  venerable  tutors  of  the  university  will  no  longer 
distress  your  modesty  by  proposing  you  for  a pattern  to 
their  pupils.  The  learned  dullness  of  declamation  will  be 
silent ; and  even  the  venal  muse,  though  happiest  in  fiction, 
will  forget  your  virtues.  Yet  for  the  benefit  of  the  succeed- 
ing age  I could  wish  that  your  retreat  might  be  deferred 
until  your  morals  shall  happily  be  ripened  to  that  maturity 
of  corruption  at  which  the  worst  examples  cease  to  be  con- 
tagious, Junius. 


WILLIAM  PERCY  FRENCH. 


(1854 ) 


William  Percy  French  was  born  at  Clooniquin,  County  Ros- 
common, May  1,  1854,  and  was  graduated  at  Dublin  University. 
Before  becoming  an  author  he  was  a civil  engineer.  He  is  one  of 
the  cleverest  of  living  Irish  humorists,  and  is  the  author  of  many 
verses,  stories,  etc.,  most  of  which  appeared  in  a small  Dublin  comic 
paper  called  The  Jarvey  (now  defunct),  edited  by  himself.  Some 
of  his  songs  have  become  very  popular,  and  he  is  also  the  author  of 
the  libretti  of  one  or  two  operas. 


THE  FIRST  LORD  LIFTINANT. 

AS  RELATED  BY  ANDREW  GERAGHTY,  PHILOMATH. 

Essex/^  said  Queen  Elizabeth,  as  the  two  of  them  sat 
at  breakwhist  in  the  back  parlor  of  Buckingham  Palace, 
Essex,  me  haro,  I ^^e  got  a job  that  I think  would  suit 
you.  Do  you  know  where  Ireland  is? 

I hn  no  great  fist  at  jografy,’’  says  his  lordship,  but 
I know  the  place  you  mane.  Population,  three  millions ; ex- 
ports, emigrants.’^ 

“ Well,’^  says  the  Queen,  I ^^e  been  reading  the  Dublin 
Eiwning  Mail  and  the  Telegraft  for  some  time  back,  and 
sorra  one  o’  me  can  get  at  the  trooth  o’  how  things  is  goin’, 
for  the  leadin’  articles  is  as  conthradictory  as  if  they  wor 
husband  and  wife.” 

That ’s  the  way  wid  papers  all  the  world  over,”  says 
Essex ; Columbus  told  me  it  was  the  same  in  Amerikay, 
when  he  was  there,  abusin’  and  conthradictin’  each  other 
at  every  turn— it ’s  the  way  they  make  their  livin’. 
Thrubble  you  for  an  egg-spoon.” 

“ It ’s  addled  they  have  me  betune  them,”  says  the 
Queen.  “Not  a know  I know  what ’s  goin’  on.  So  now, 
what  I want  you  to  do  is  to  run  over  to  Ireland,  like  a good 
fella,  and  bring  me  word  how  matters  stand.” 

“ Is  it  me?  ” says  Essex,  leppin’  up  off  his  chair.  “ It ’s 
not  in  airnest  ye  are,  ould  lady.  Sure  it ’s  the  height  of 
the  London  saison.  Every  one ’s  in  town,  and  Shake’s  new 

1233 


1234 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


fairy  piece,  ^ The  Midsummer’s  Night  Mare,’  billed  for  nex? 
week.” 

You  ’ll  go  when  ye  ’re  tould,”  says  the  Queen,  fixin’  him 
with  her  eye,  if  you  know  which  side  yer  bread ’s  buttered 
on.  See  here,  now,”  says  she,  seein’  him  chokin’  wid 
vexation  and  a slice  o’  corned  beef,  you  ought  to  be 
as  pleased  as  Punch  about  it,  for  you  ’ll  be  at  the  top  o’ 
the  walk  over  there  as  vice-regent  representin’  me.” 

I ought  to  have  a title  or  two,”  says  Essex,  pluckin’  up 
a bit.  His  Gloriosity  the  Great  Panjandhrum,  or  the  like 
o’  that.” 

How  would  His  Excellency  the  Lord  Liftinant  of  Ire- 
land sthrike  you?”  says  Elizabeth. 

First  class,”  cries  Essex.  Couldn’t  be  betther ; it 
doesn’t  mean  much,  but  it ’s  allitherative,  and  will  look 
well  below  the  number  on  me  hall  door.” 

Well,  boys,  it  didn’t  take  him  long  to  pack  his  clothes 
and  start  away  for  the  Island  o’  Saints.  It  took  him  a good 
while  to  get  there,  though,  through  not  knowin’  the  road; 
but  by  means  of  a pocket  compass  and  a tip  to  the  steward, 
he  was  landed  at  last  contagious  to  Dalkey  Island.  Goin’ 
up  to  an  ould  man  who  was  sittin’  on  a rock,  he  took  off 
his  hat,  and  says  he — 

That ’s  great  weather  we  ’re  havin’?  ” 

Good  enough  for  the  times  that ’s  in  it,”  says  the  ould 
man,  cockin’  one  eye  at  him. 

Any  divarshun  goin’  on?  ” says  Essex. 

“ You  ’re  a sthranger  in  these  parts,  I ’m  thinkin’,”  says 
the  ould  man,  or  you ’d  know  this  was  a ^ band  night  ’ in 
Dalkey.” 

I Avasn’t  aware  of  it,”  says  Essex ; “ the  fact  is,”  says 
he,  I only  landed  from  England  just  this  minute.” 

Ay,”  says  the  ould  man  bitterly,  it ’s  little  they  know 
about  us  over  there.  I ’ll  hould  you,”  says  he,  with  a slight 
thrimble  in  his  voice,  that  the  Queen  herself  doesn’t  know 
there  is  to  be  fireworks  in  the  Sorrento  Gardens  this  night.” 
Well,  when  Essex  heard  that,  he  disremembered  entirely 
he  was  sent  over  to  Ireland  to  put  doAvn  rows  and  ructions, 
and  away  wid  him  to  see  the  fun  and  flirt  wid  all  the  pretty 
girls  he  could  find.  And  he  found  plenty  of  them — thick 
as  bees  they  wor,  and  each  one  as  beautiful  as  the  day  and 
the  morra.  He  wrote  two  letters  home  next  day — one  to 


WILLIAM  PERCY  FRENCH. 


1235 


Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  other  to  Lord  Montaigle,  a play- 
boy like  himself.  I ’ll  read  you  the  one  to  the  Queen 
first : — 

“ Dame  Sthreet,  April  16th,  1599. 

“ Fair  Enchantress, — I wish  I was  back  in  London,  baskin’ in 
your  sweet  smiles  and  listenin’  to  your  melodious  voice  once  more. 
I got  the  consignment  of  men  and  the  post-office  order  all  right.  I 
was  out  all  the  mornin’  lookin’  for  the  inimy,  but  sorra  a taste  of 
Hugh  O’Neil  or  his  men  can  I find.  A policemin  at  the  corner  o’ 
Nassau  Street  told  me  they  wor  hidin’  in  Wicklow.  So  I am  makin’ 
up  a party  to  explore  the  Dargle  on  Easter  Monda’.  Th  girls  here 
are  as  ugly  as  sin,  and  every  minute  o’  the  day  I do  be  wishin’  it 
was  your  good-lookin’-self  I was  gazin’  at  instead  o’  these  ignorant 
scarecrows.  Hopin’  soon  to  be  back  at  ould  England,  I remain  your 
lovin’  subjec’,  Essex. 

“P.S. — I hear  Hugh  0’Neil  was  seen  on  the  top  of  the  Donny- 
brook  tram  yesterday  mornin’.  If  I have  any  luck  the  head  ’ll  be 
off  him  before  you  get  this.  E.” 

The  other  letter  read  this  way — 

“ Dear  Monty — This  is  a great  place  all  out.  Come  over  here  if 
you  want  fun.  Divil  such  play-boys  ever  I seen,  and  the  girls — 
oh  ! don’t  be  talkin’ — ’pon  me  secret  honor  you  ’ll  see  more  love- 
liness at  a tay  and  supper  ball  in  Rathmines  than  there  is  in  the 
whole  of  England.  Tell  Ned  Spenser  to  send  me  a love-song  to  sing 
to  a young  girl  who  seems  taken  wid  my  appearance.  Her  name ’s 
Mary,  and  she  lives  in  Dunlary,  so  he  oughtent  to  find  it  hard.  I 
hear  Hugh  O’Neil ’s  a terror,  and  hits  a powerful  welt,  especially 
when  you  ’re  not  lookin’.  If  he  tries  any  of  his  games  on  wid  me, 
I ’ll  give  him  in  charge.  No  brawlin’  for  yours  truly, 

“ Essex.” 

Well,  me  bould  Essex  stopped  for  odds  of  six  months  in 
Dublin,  piirtendin’  to  be  very  busy  subjugatin^  the  country, 
but  all  the  time  only  losin’  his  time  and  money  widout  doin’ 
a hand’s  turn,  and  doin’  his  best  to  avoid  a ruction  with 
“ Fighting  Hugh.”  If  a messenger  came  to  tell  him  that 
O’Neil  was  campin’  out  on  the  North  Bull,  Essex  would  up 
stick  and  away  for  Sandycove,  where,  after  draggin’  the 
forty-foot  hole,  he ’d  write  off  to  Elizabeth,  saying  that 

owing  to  their  suparior  knowledge  of  the  country,  the 
dastard  foe  had  once  more  eluded  him.” 

The  Queen  got  mighty  tired  of  these  letters,  especially 
as  they  always  ended  with  a request  to  send  stamps  by 
return,  and  told  Essex  to  finish  up  his  business  and  not  be 
makin’  a fool  of  himself. 


1236 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


Oh,  that  the  talk,  is  it,’’  says  Essex;  very  well,  me 
ould  sauce-box”  (that  was  the  name  he  had  for  her  ever 
since  she  gev  him  the  clip  on  the  ear  for  turnin’  his  back 
on  her),  ‘Wery  well,  me  ould  sauce-box,”  says  he,  ‘‘I’ll 
write  off  to  O’Neil  this  very  minute,  and  tell  him  to  send 
in  his  lowest  terms  for  peace  at  ruling  prices.” 

Well,  the  threaty  was  a bit  of  a one-sided  one — the  terms 
being — 

1.  Hugh  O’Neil  to  be  King  of  Great  Britain. 

2.  Lord  Essex  to  return  to  London  and  remain  there  as 
iViceroy  of  England. 

3.  The  O’Neil  family  to  be  supported  by  Government, 
with  free  passes  to  all  theaters  and  places  of  entertain- 
ment. 

4.  The  London  markets  to  buy  only  from  Irish  dealers. 

5.  All  taxes  to  be  sent  in  stamped  envelope,  directed  to 
H.  O’Neil,  and  marked  “private.”  Checks  crossed  and 
made  payable  to  H.  O’Neil.  Terms  cash. 

Well,  if  Essex  had  had  the  sense  to  read  through  this 
threaty  he ’d  have  seen  it  was  of  too  graspin’  a nature 
to  pass  with  any  sort  of  a respectable  sovereign,  but  he 
was  that  mad  he  just  stuck  the  document  in  the  pocket 
of  his  pot-metal  overcoat,  and  away  wid  him  hot  foot  for 
England. 

“Is  the  Queen  widin?”  says  he  to  the  butler,  when  he 
opened  the  door  o’  the  palace.  His  clothes  were  that  dirty 
and  disorthered  wid  travelin’  all  night,  and  his  boots  that 
muddy,  that  the  butler  was  for  not  littin’  him  in  at  the  first 
go  off,  so  says  he  very  grand : “ Her  Meejesty  is  abow  stairs 
and  can’t  be  seen  till  she ’s  had  her  breakwhist.” 

“ Tell  her  the  Lord  Liftinant  of  Ireland  desires  an  enter- 
view,”  sa^'s  Essex. 

“ Oh,  beg  pardon,  me  lord,”  says  the  butler,  steppin’  to 
one  side,  “I  didn’t  know  ’t  was  yourself  was  in  it;  come 
inside,  sir;  the  Queen ’s  in  the  dhrawin’-room.” 

Well,  Essex  leps  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  dhrawin’- 
room  wid  him,  muddy  boots  and  all;  but  not  a sight  of 
Elizabeth  was  to  be  seen. 

“ Where ’s  your  missis?  ” says  he  to  one  of  the  maids-of- 
honor  that  was  dustin’  the  chimbley-piece. 

“ She ’s  not  out  of  her  bed  yet,”  says  the  maid  with  a toss 
of  her  head ; “ but  if  you  write  your  message  on  the  slate 


WILLIAM  PERCY  FRENCH, 


1237 


beyant,  I ’ll  see  ” — but  before  she  had  finished,  Essex  was 
up  the  second  fiight  and  knockin’  at  the  Queen’s  bedroom 
door. 

Is  that  the  hot  wather?  ” says  the  Queen. 

No,  it ’s  me, — Essex.  Can  you  see  me?  ” 

Faith,  I can’t,”  says  the  Queen.  Hould  on  till  I draw 
the  bed-curtains.  Come  in  now,”  says  she,  and  say  your 
say,  for  I can’t  have  you  stoppin’  long — you  young  Lu- 
tharian.” 

Bedad,  yer  Majesty,”  says  Essex,  droppin’  on  his  knees 
before  her  (the  delutherer  he  was),  small  blame  to  me  if 
I am  a Lutharian,  for  you  have  a face  on  you  that  would 
charm  a bird  off  a bush.” 

Hould  your  tongue,  you  young  reprobate,”  says  the 
Queen,  blushin’  up  to  her  curl-papers  wid  delight,  and 
tell  me  what  improvements  you  med  in  Ireland.” 

' Faith,  I taught  manners  to  O’Neil,”  cries  Essex. 

He  had  a bad  masther  then,”  says  Elizabeth,  lookin’ 
at  his  dirty  boots ; couldn’t  you  wipe  yer  feet  before  ye 
desthroyed  me  carpets,  young  man?  ” 

‘‘  Oh,  now,”  says  Essex,  is  it  wastin’  me  time  shufflin’ 
about  on  a mat  you ’d  have  me,  when  I might  be  gazin’  on 
the  loveliest  faymale  the  world  ever  saw?  ” 

Well,”  says  the  Queen,  I ’ll  forgive  you  this  time,  as 
you ’ve  been  so  long  away,  but  remimber  in  future  that 
Kidderminster  isn’t  oilcloth.  Tell  me,”  says  she,  is  West- 
land  Row  Station  finished  yet?  ” 

There ’s  a side  wall  or  two  wanted  yet,  I believe,”  says 
Essex. 

What  about  the  Loop  Line?  ” says  she. 

Oh,  they  ’re  gettin’  on  with  that,”  saj^s  he,  only  some 
people  think  the  girders  a disfigurement  to  the  city.” 

Is  there  any  talk  about  that  esplanade  from  Sandycove 
to  Dunlary?  ” 

^‘There’s  talk  about  it,  but  that’s  all,”  says  Essex; 
’t  would  be  an  odious  fine  improvement  to  house  property, 
and  I hope  they  ’ll  see  to  it  soon.” 

Sorra  mucli  you  seem  to  have  done,  beyant  spendin’  me 
men  and  me  money.  Let ’s  have  a look  at  that  threaty  I see 
stickin’  out  o’  your  pocket.” 

Well,  when  the  Queen  read  the  terms  of  Hugh  O’Neil 
she  just  gev  him  one  look,  an’  jumpin’  from  off  the  bed. 


1238 


IRISH  LITERATURE. 


put  her  head  out  of  the  window,  and  called  out  to  the 
policeman  on  duty — 

“ Is  the  Head  below? 

I dl  tell  him  you  want  him,  ma’am,^^  says  the  police- 
man. 

Do,’’  says  the  Queen.  Hello,”  says  she,  as  a slip  o’ 
paper  dhropped  out  o’  the  dispatches.  Wdiat ’s  this? 
‘ Lines  to  Marj^’  Ho ! ho ! me  gay  fella,  that ’s  what 
you  ’ve  been  up  to,  is  it?  ” 

“ Mrs.  Brady ’s 
A widow  lady, 

And  she  has  a charmin’  daughter  I adore, 

I went  to  court  her, 

Across  the  water. 

And  her  mother  keeps  a little  candy-store. 

She ’s  such  a darlin’ 

She ’s  like  a starlin’ 

And  in  love  with  her  I’m  gettin’  more  and  more, 

Her  name  is  Mary, 

She ’s  from  Dunlary  ; 

And  her  mother  keeps  a little  candy-store.” 

That  settles  it,”  says  the  Queen.  It ’s  the  jailer 
you  ’ll  serenade  next.” 

When  Essex  heard  that,  he  thrimbled  so  much  that  the 
button  of  his  cuirass  shook  off  and  rowled  under  the 
dhressin’-table. 

Arrest  that  man,”  says  the  Queen,  when  the  Head- 
Constable  came  to  the  door;  arrest  that  thrater,”  says 
she,  and  never  let  me  set  eyes  on  him  again.” 

And  indeed  she  never  did,  and  soon  after  that  he  met 
with  his  death  from  the  skelp  of  an  axe  he  got  when  he  was 
standin’  on  Tower  Hill. 


ALICE  FURLONG. 


(1875 

Alice  Furlong  was  born  about  1875  in  County  Dublin.  She  is 
a sister  of  Mary  Furlong  (q.  v.).  Alice  began  writing  poetry  in 
1893.  Her  first  poem  appeared  in  The  Irish  Monthly^  the  editor  of 
’vvhich  has  been  her  constant  friend.  She  has  contributed  poems  to 
many  magazines  and  newspapers,  and  her  first  volume  of  poems, 

‘ Roses  and  Rue,’  was  published  by  Mr.  Elkin  Matthews  in  1898. 
It  has  attracted  much  attention  from  the  leading  critical  reviews, 
and  her  work  has  been  much  praised  for  its  delicacy,  pathos,  and 
music.  She  is  the  author  of  three  novels  and  many  short  stories. 

THE  TREES. 

These  be  God’s  fair  high  palaces, 

Walled  with  fine  leafen  trellises, 

Interstarred  with  the  warm  and  luminous  azure; 

Sunlights  run  laughing  through. 

And  rains  and  honey-dew 

Scatter  pale  pearls  at  every  green  embrasure. 

The  tangled  twist  and  twine 
Of  His  soaring  staircases  have  mosses  fine 
For  emerald  pavement,  and  each  leafy  chamber 
Is  atmosphered  with  amber. 

Athwart  the  mellow  air 
The  twinkling  threads  of  gossamer 
Shimmer  and  shine 
In  many  a rainbow  line. 

The  chaffinch  is  God’s  little  page. 

O joyant  vassalage! 

You  will ! You  will ! ” he  saith  the  whole  day  long. 

In  sweet  monotonous  song: 

Poised  on  the  window-sills  of  outmost  leaves 
He  watches  where  the  tremulous  sunlight  weaves 
Its  golden  webbing  over  the  palpitant  grass, 

While  the  Summer  butterfly,  winged  of  the  blue-veined  snow, 
Floats  by  on  aerial  tides  as  clear  as  glass ; 

Like  a fairy  ship  with  its  delicate  sails  ablow. 

From  the  break  of  morn, 

Herein  the  blackbird  is  God’s  courtier, 

With  gold  tongue  ever  astir. 


1239 


1240 


IRISH  LITERATURE, 


Piping  and  praising 
On  his  beaked  horn. 

To  do  his  Seigneur  duty 

In  mellow  fluency  and  dulcet  phrasing, 

In  pjeans  of  passing  beauty; 

As  a chanting  priest, 

Chanting  his  matins  in  the  wane  o’  the  night, 

While  slow  great  winds  of  vibrant  light 
Sweep  up  the  lilied  East. 

The  dumb  thing  is  God’s  guest, 

And  ever  tired  creature  seeking  rest ; 

The  sheep,  grown  weary  browsing. 

The  cattle,  drouthy  with  heat. 

One  after  one,  lagging  on  listless  feet. 

Seek  the  green  shadow  of  God’s  pleasant  housing; 
While  the  thousand  winged  wights  of  bough  and  air 
Do  find  God’s  palace  fair! 


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